Ravens Cry in Dissonance
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Light DMHP Slash. Sequel to When the Black Veil Flutters. As Harry is drawn deeper into the world of mystery and delusion and death, will Draco become the key to his sanity or the catalyst to his downfall?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The poem _The Night-mare Death in Life_ belongs to Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The play _Salome: A Tragedy in One Act _belongs to Oscar Wilde.

Warning: Disturbing imagery.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Prologue: "Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?" (1)_

Day turned into night, and once more a blanket of velvet black enveloped the earth. Thousands of miles away in the desolate open sea, where light could never reach into its depth, a lone isle erected beyond the reaches of the crushing tides, on which loomed a decaying stone tower like a lone survivor taking his proud stand before facing the gallows.

It was Azkaban, the wizard's prison whose name had always been an object of fear among the wizarding mass. There was nothing but endless nights within these walls that were marked by violence and madness; even though the Dementors had departed, Azkaban continued to be reeked with the remnant of their foul presence.

In one of the massive security cells which housed the most dangerous of criminals, Lucius Malfoy sat cross-legged upon the thin mattress of his cot, his hands placed casually on his knees, eyes closed in meditation. He was clad in plain grey robe, his cheeks hollow, his face haggard, and yet despite the unpleasant life of incarceration, Lucius Malfoy had retained the air of arrogance and sophistication that he had inherited from his esteemed father, Abraxas Malfoy.

The chamber was dark, what little light could come through from the narrow window high above cast a sliver of misty white upon the grimy stone floor before Lucius. When he opened his eyes, the dark figure of Draco Malfoy was standing beneath the light, like an apparition that had suddenly materialized. The black robe clad on Draco was like shadows, and his face pale as a ghost. It was a terrible sight to behold, and yet Lucius faced him with such composure as befits of a man who was cold as ice.

"Hello, Father," Draco said while he bowed his head briefly in respect, his voice as clear as raindrops falling upon green leaves.

"Hello, Draco," Lucius calmly responded, feeling no fear except a sense of inevitability. A pale eyebrow arched in inquiry. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of such a visitation?"

"I know everything, Father," Draco replied in such coolness as rivalling his father's voice. His face beheld no accusation, no condemnation, only terrible calmness that belied little emotions.

Silence stretched within the oppressive chamber beyond eternity, until Lucius finally spoke in a soft tone, "I see." Impassivity was all Draco could discern from the face before him that was so much like his own, and yet so unlike his own. No one, not even Draco, who had lived through three other lifetimes, could tell what was going through the mind of the Malfoy patriarch as he studied Draco in contemplation.

"Why?" was Draco's only question, and the only one ever needed answering.

Those same cold eyes much like his own were reflecting Draco's spectre in their depths like an unyielding mirror. "It was necessary," Lucius said quietly.

Such simple words, and yet how much it had conveyed to Draco. Draco would not, could not forget the bitter taste of betrayal and despair that had drowned his soul when he realized what his beloved father was about to do. But forgotten he had, hadn't he? Lucius had sealed away his memory of those weeks when Draco was at the tender age of five, until the seal was irrevocably broken by the capricious Augustus Grindelwald, who had shown Draco what true despair really was.

"I will never forgive you for that," Draco utterly vehemently. "Never." Harsh eyes burnt with cold fire that threatened to smoulder Lucius with his gaze.

"I am not seeking for forgiveness or redemption, Draco," Lucius spoke in frightening serenity, and had Draco been more sound in mind, he would have noticed the turbulent waves flowing through his father's grey eyes. "If you find it justified to exact revenge against me, then do as your soul tells you so."

Draco felt as though he was being slapped, and for the longest time he stared blankly at the man who was his father, as his eyes seemed clouded by memories: a lightless chamber, the dead grey sky, a flash of the dagger...

"No," Draco furiously proclaimed as he pushed aside the painful memories with every ounce of his will. "No, I won't." And then like smoke he vanished into thin air, leaving nothing behind but empty words.

Lucius stared at the strand of melancholic moonbeam lingering lethargically on the harsh floor where the apparition of his son had stood moments ago, before his low voice rang out within these prison walls in a soft whisper, "Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind, Draco."--

Grey eyes veiled with a film of mist slowly opened to the world of the living, and Draco Malfoy woke up on his bed, where drapes were pulled over to cover the bed. A raven was croaking by his window, but he hardly noticed it as he was desperately trying to fight down the nausea that was threatening to drown out every last shred of his sanity.

Every part of his being was trembling, as though suddenly he was that ignorant and untried child of five once again, blissfully unaware of the dagger that was ever hanging over his head.

_"The living has their own world, and the dead has their resting place beyond the veil. But you, who is trapped between the two worlds, like a ghost wandering on this earth, unliving and undead, where do you belong?"_

Biting hard on his lips until he drew blood, Draco clutched at his midriff tightly as he waited for the twisting agony in his body to subside. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the nearly unbearable pain, along with the delirious heat, had died away. He remained curl up on his side, as perspiration soaked into his clothes and began to dry. When his breathing had finally eased, he threw aside the blanket that was beginning to suffocate him, and got up.

His room in the Malfoy Manor was much like his dorm room in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: elegantly crafted rosewood furniture strewn tastefully about the chamber, a burnt-out fireplace in front, directly facing the bed quarter that was located at the back of the room, and a side door leading to his private bathroom. A set of glass windows lined one wall, and the bright moon outside the windows showered the room with a tint of pale blue.

Draco walked barefooted upon the soft carpet towards the window, where a raven sat perched outside the window. Without hesitation he opened the window, letting the raven in. The raven flew noiselessly into the room, and settled itself on the desk with blank eyes staring at Draco, who narrowed his eyes as though the raven was conveying some hidden message to him. Silently he changed into his robe and grabbed his wand from the nightstand, before he vanished without a trace, leaving behind a window opened to the cold, winter night.

* * *

Faint noises like those of conspiring whispers from night creatures flowed into the ears of Harry Potter, as he lay awake in the makeshift bed that was kindly provided for by the Weasley family. On the other side of the cluttered attic, Ron Weasley was sound asleep, snoring faintly as he delved into a peaceful slumber.

Harry opened his eyes, and stared at the steep ceiling, which was painted with a sliver of ethereal moonbeam that had crept into the room uninvited through the unshaded window -- it was all he could make out without his glasses. Unconsciously his hand flew up to clutch at something that was hidden beneath his collar, and somehow, he felt a shred of strange comfort that was still foreign to his mind. For reasons he could not fathom, the pulsing coolness pressing into his palm reminded him of his godfather, Sirius Black, and by extension, Draco Malfoy. As he recalled all that had transpired that one Hallowe'en, his brows knotted itself into an unsettling frown.

It had been half a month since Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after his escapade. Gossips and rumours had finally died down, and in all appearance, life at Hogwarts had settled back to its normal routine once more. Yet something had changed; students and professors alike could acutely feel the change in the wind, and none could sense it more keenly than Harry, and the respected headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore. The one that brought forth such a change was Draco Malfoy, who seemed to have grown in stature, but at the same time faded into the shadow of his former self.

The disquieting feeling did not leave Harry; it had grown into a monstrosity liken to that of a certain creature created by a tormented scientist. Draco Malfoy was no longer Draco Malfoy, but a foreign creature for whom Harry felt both oddly drawn to and repulsed by.

The many riddles surrounding the truth behind the possession were haunting Harry like a ghost, and yet the subject of which was unwilling to provide answers to his query. With the help of his two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Harry had yielded some disturbing information concerning the incident surrounding the possession, which carried certain unsettling implications for him...

Furiously Harry blinked his eyes, willing his mind to travel down a less perilous path. However, before he could direct his thoughts elsewhere, a sudden heightened sense of alertness informed him of danger near at hand. Staying as still as he possibly could, his hand discreetly crept under the mattress to where he hid his wand. As his heartbeat raised into a crescendo, he squinted his eyes in a futile attempt to see clearly what was happening. But all he saw were shadows and moonlight, until a dark figure entered his peripheral line of sight.

A figure wrapped in impenetrable shadow, and a face as transparent as a corpse -- it was Draco Malfoy. The world before Harry's eye suddenly snapped into focus, and what he saw chilled his blood -- Draco Malfoy was standing over him with dagger drawn, which was reflecting the merciless moonlight that seemed able to cut through darkness. Terror seized Harry in its strangling grip, rendering him unable to move nor speak, his wand lay forgotten.

As though contemplating his course of action, Draco crouched down before Harry's prone form in tantalizing slowness. A strange expression appeared on Draco's face as Harry had never seen before, and in a quiet whisper that seemed to spell many different meanings, Draco said, "Forgive me."--

With an abrupt start, Harry jumped up from his mattress, his breathing ragged, and his heart skipping several tempo too fast. Frantically he pulled out his wand, his eyes roamed about the room like a hunted prey. Nothing seemed amiss in the room; there was no dark figures or pale faces lurking about, and Ron was still in his restful slumber. Looking down his front, he saw no blood on his chest, and yet he could feel a chill in his chest, as though he was being grazed by a phantom blade.

Violently he pulled off his top, and examined himself under the faint wandlight. There was no wound on his chest, nor anywhere on his body. The jade pendant, in the shape of a bird spreading its wings, was swinging slightly against his chest, but that was all.

As he began to recover, his mind finally woke up to reasons. In his panic, he had quite forgotten that the Burrows was being protected by experienced Aurors from day to night and night to day. Surely Draco Malfoy could never get past the guardians or the wards that were placed upon the Burrows?

It was just a dream, nothing more. And yet Harry was gravely unnerved by its vividness, the flash of the dagger was burnt deeply in his mind. A shiver coursed through Harry's veins as he was reminded of those other times when such visions had struck him without warning. For a long time, he sat unsleeping, curled up on the mattress, with the thick blanket enveloping him like a cocoon; but no amount of physical warmth could chase away the brisk chill that was threatening to freeze every part of his very being.

* * *

Dead silence permeated the air, as the half moon shone its eerie pale rays upon the earth, lighting the opening of the catacomb with secretive indigo. Before the mouth of the underground stood a boy of sixteen, clad in black, in his hand was a slender elder-wood wand, its tip emitting a blue glow that rivalled the sparks from ancient bones, illuminating the boy's face with a deathly pallor.

Without fear he ventured forth into the underbelly of earth, and was soon devoured by darkness. Stench of decaying flesh and damp mud floated into his nostrils, but it did not seem to bother Draco, as he confidently navigated through the winding passageways filled with rotting bones and ancient stonework, armed with naught but his wand.

At last he came to a small alcove where a single unadorned sarcophagus lay in wait for the one who was willing to awake the ghost within. The sarcophagus was covered with dirt and cobwebs, a testament of past forgotten in the great flow of time.

With a wave of his wand and a silent command, the lid of the sarcophagus slid to the side, revealing what it has been hiding all along. Without hesitation Draco walked up to the sarcophagus, and looked inside the sarcophagus with hard eyes that seemed suddenly to spark a glimmer of sinister gold.

When the moon was beginning to fall, the sarcophagus was slammed shut, creating an echoing boom beneath the underground cemetery that was reminiscent of god's fury. It was sealed once more, for it had accomplished its purpose, and here it shall remain sealed until the end of time.

Emerging from the chipped stone staircase was Draco, his right hand gripping his lit wand. Moonlight caressed his face with its soft touch, basking him in an oddly otherworldly light, as though he was a being unknown to this solid earth. When the flapping of wings and the harsh cries of the raven ripped through the silence in the deserted chapel ground, a mystical half-smile appeared upon his thin lips, and he spoke with clear amusement, "'The moon is like the moon,' hmm?" (2)

Hazy clouds moved swiftly to cover the moon like a maid hastening to cover up the naked form of her mistress. Soon the earth was invaded by utter darkness, and as the bell from a distant church tolled thrice, Draco Malfoy melted back into the shadow's cool embrace.

* * *

_To be continued..._

1. Chapter title comes from Coleridge's poem, _The Night-mare Death in Life_.

2. A line spoken by Herodias in Oscar Wilde's play, _Salome: A Tragedy in One Act_. In the play, most of the characters compare the moon to various things and persons, such as a little princess and a mad woman. But Herodias, perhaps the most sensible character in the whole play, is the only one who thinks the moon is just the moon.

A/N: Happy Beltane, or Happy May Day! Thank you very much for those of you who have read and reviewed my fics, and a further thanks to those who are reading this. First, a caution: there will be several different subplots woven into this story, so I hope you are up for the challenge. As for the DH element, I sincerely ask for your patience still.


	2. Part I

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Dark themes and disturbing imagery.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part I: A Baroque Masquerade_

Upon martyr white ground and beneath pallid grey sky erected the stone castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Within its grim stone walls that had witnessed history being made and remade for countless centuries, Harry Potter was striding in haste towards a grotesque gargoyle that was crouching in wait like a dutiful servant. The necessary password was obligingly given, and the gargoyle immediately bowed itself aside, allowing Harry to pass through the threshold it had guarded over.

Rising slowly on the dizzying spiral staircase, Harry was rudely reminded of that one evening on another set of spiral staircase, and nervously he clung to the pendant hidden beneath his white shirt; yet the pendant did not offer him the reassurance he sought for.

Atop the staircase was an ancient wooden door that seemed hardly able to withstand any onslaught, but Harry knew there were probably enchantments cast upon the doorway as a second line of defence. He raised his hand, and rapped smartly on the door thrice, which elicited a hollow sound resonating in the musty air.

"Come in," came the voice from within the chamber. Unconsciously taking a deep breath, Harry opened the door and walked into the headmaster office of Hogwarts.

The circular chamber was as Harry had remembered it: assortment of books and mysterious apparatus proudly displayed on cherry wood shelves and round tables; sleeping portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts covered the walls; an empty golden perch stood off to the side; the school sorting hat and the sword of Gryffindor were given the honour of being placed on the high shelf that stood perpendicular to the headmaster's desk. And behind the desk, which was cluttered with papers and writing tools and curious tinkers, stood the current headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore. As always Dumbledore offered Harry a kind smile, but as Harry got closer, he could see the deepened wrinkles upon Dumbledore's worn face.

"Hello, Harry. I'm glad you can join me on such short notice." Dumbledore held out his hand, offering Harry a seat, which Harry obliged.

"How are you feeling, professor?" was the first thing that came to Harry's mind as he sat down. Even though Madam Pomfrey had said that the injury Dumbledore had sustained would be healed in two weeks, when last Harry saw Dumbledore, he could still detect tell-tale signs of recent recovery.

"I'm fine, especially after the much needed rest," Dumbledore said with a smile, before his expression turned serious. "I am sure you are wondering as to why you are being summoned here. But first, let me ask you something. Did Draco contact you over the Christmas holiday?"

Harry tensed as Draco Malfoy's name was spoken aloud, and acutely he sensed once more the same unsettling feeling that had been looming over him like a dark cloud. It was impossible not to notice that Draco Malfoy was not among those students who had returned to Hogwarts after Christmas holiday had ended. "No, the last time we talked was before the holiday," Harry said plainly while fighting the urge to fiddle with his pendant.

"I see," Dumbledore merely stated, his shoulders seemed to slump in resignation at the information Harry had disclosed. "I will be frank with you, Harry. But I need you to promise me you will not impart what I am about to tell you to anyone, which includes Mr Weasley and Miss Granger."

A frown wormed its way onto Harry's brow as he pondered about the reason for such secrecy. Had Draco gotten himself into yet another mishap which he could not get out of? As Harry contemplated the possibility, he found himself growing increasingly apprehensive about what Dumbledore was about to tell him.

Noticing Dumbledore's azure eyes studying him, Harry finally nodded, and replied, "I won't tell anyone."

Apparently satisfied with Harry's vow of silence, Dumbledore folded his hand upon his midriff, and began solemnly, "I am sure you have noticed that Draco has not come back to Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, he is nowhere to be found, not even at his own home."

It was not the news Harry had expected, and he could not help widening his eyes in surprise. "Malfoy's gone missing?" he blurted out. "But wha- why?"

"We do not know yet," Dumbledore said, his face grim with a hint of unease. "According to the house-elves working at the Malfoy Manor, Draco went out on the night of the Winter Solstice, and he has not returned since."

Dumbledore's words had summoned forth a piece of disturbing memory in Harry's mind; it was on the night of the Winter Solstice that he had the frightening dream about Draco. Forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand, he asked, "Doesn't his mother know where he is?"

There was a sharp glint in Dumbledore's eyes at Harry's inquiry. "Narcissa is currently away, therefore I presume she will not be of help to us." Dumbledore's careful choice of words was curious indeed, and it took some moments for Harry to comprehend his meaning.

"His mother has gone into hiding?" Dumbledore's silence had given Harry the answer he needed. "Perhaps Malfoy went with his mother?" Harry suggested tentatively as he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I do not think so." Dumbledore shook his head, and leant back against his armchair. "He would not wander far from the Blessed one to whom he has a pledge to."

With that comment Dumbledore regarded Harry intently, before lowering his gaze to where Harry was unknowingly toying with the pendant beneath his shirt once more. As if being caught in an indecent act, Harry quickly withdrew his hand, but apparently Dumbledore had seen enough. The twinkle that one always associated with the whimsical headmaster of Hogwarts had briefly returned to his blue eyes, before his face became troubled once more.

Feeling as if Dumbledore had given him a cue to speak, Harry swallowed once, before he said in a hesitant voice, "Professor, do you think something has happened to him?"

"I honestly do not know, Harry," Dumbledore said slowly as if these words were weighing heavily in his mind. "I can only hope that wherever Draco maybe, he is safe from harm."

Looking away from the headmaster's rueful expression, something on the mahogany desk caught Harry's eye. It was a leather-bound ancient volume that seemed ready to fall apart. There was no title on the cover nor on the spine, yet Harry felt oddly drawn to it, his fingers itching to touch its pages...

"Harry?" Like a slap to his cheek, Harry snapped his head up to stare at Dumbledore, who seemed suddenly alarmed by what he saw.

It took some time before Harry recovered himself, and said, "Sorry, professor." He had every mind to ask Dumbledore about the book, but something inside of him was holding him back.

"Perhaps it is best if we leave this matter for another day?" Dumbledore spoke mildly, yet his eyes were searching Harry's face, looking for what Harry knew not.

"No, it's alright," Harry immediately replied. "I would rather get this over with."

Dumbledore looked into Harry's eye as if wanting to read the truth from him, before he dropped his gaze and began anew, "Very well. I'm sure you understand that Draco is in a very delicate position right now. On the one hand, there is Lucius' association with Lord Voldemort. On the other hand, there is the pledge -- the Blessing -- that connects you to the Malfoy family, which I doubt Lord Voldemort will look kindly upon."

The implicit meaning in Dumbledore's words was not lost on Harry. "So," Harry said slowly as he began to comprehend the whole situation, "Voldemort wants to kill me, but now Malfoy has to protect me because of the Blessing. Voldemort will most likely punish him and his parents for that because he would think that they have betrayed him. That's why Malfoy's mother has to leave. I am the reason."

Gravely Dumbledore regarded him for several heartbeats, before he continued, "No one could have predicted Abraxas would grant you the Blessing. You are not at fault, Harry."

Nonetheless, no amount of consolation could ease away the burden that was added upon Harry's shoulders, which had been weighing him down ever since his talk with Draco. With some resolve he pushed the memory aside, and asked, "Is there no way I can get out of it?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore replied with a shake of his head. "Throughout the ages, the Malfoy bloodline has always honoured the Blessing rigidly; no doubt Draco is doing as his predecessors would have done." He paused for a brief moment, giving Harry some time to take it all in. "Anyhow, at the moment, Lord Voldemort has not learnt of the Blessing yet, therefore Draco and his parents are in no immediate danger. But the _status quo _can change as swiftly as the weather should unforeseeable circumstances present itself."

Harry was silent as he bit his lips, his eyes stared unblinkingly at the shelves full of books; there was one thing plaguing his mind still. "Do you think he can be trusted, sir?" Harry asked at last while he absentmindedly fiddled with the thin silver chain on his neck.

There was a gleam shining through from beneath those half-moon glasses, as though warning Harry to be careful of his insinuation. "I trust every one of my students," Dumbledore spoke slowly as he held Harry's gaze.

"Even Malfoy? Even knowing that he had made some kind of deal with..." Harry could not help but feel a shiver in his spine at the thought of _that man_, but he would not allow himself to waver easily, "with Augustus Grindelwald?"

At the mention of his old friend, a haze of sorrow clouded Dumbledore's clear blue eyes. Yet when he spoke, his voice was quiet but strong, "Yes, even so. But the one thing that really matters is, do you trust him?"

Harry could speak no response that would not sound like a lie, and he fell silent, leaving the question hanging in the air; yet it seemed Dumbledore could read his mind. Guiltily Harry avoided his gaze and stared at the book once more while running a finger over the contour of the pendant; the shape of a bird ready to take flight was becoming disturbingly familiar beneath his fingertip.

* * *

Thousands of floating candles lit up the golden Great Hall, chasing away the bleakness of the day. Teachers and students alike were seated at their respective tables, where rows of delicious dishes emitting appetizing aroma were lined up atop the entire length of the tables. Yet despite the cheerfulness of the Great Hall, the atmosphere was greatly subdued. The empty spots had become all too pronounced as there were fewer students returning to Hogwarts than there were at the beginning of the school year.

The news printed in the _Daily Prophet_ had not been encouraging either, as more and more gruesome murders were reported almost every other day, of men with head severed from their bodies, or of massacre and destruction disguised as natural disasters.

"So," Ron Weasley said as he helped himself to the largely untouched plate full of pork chops, "What did Dumbledore want to talk to you about?"

"Nothing much," Harry lied, for he remembered the promise he had made with Dumbledore about not disclosing the information he had heard. "Just the usual."

However, Hermione Granger, who was sitting across from Harry, was surveying Harry's face closely with a frown, as though she knew Harry was not telling the truth. Instead of defending himself, Harry merely turned back to his half-eaten meal to avoid Hermione's stare, even though he had lost his appetite.

The news of Draco's disappearance had disturbed him more than he imagined, and for reasons that eluded him, Harry was getting agitated once more. Although Dumbledore said he trusted Draco, Harry could not help contemplating about the slim possibility that Draco might have joined Voldemort's cause after all. And yet...

Without knowing it, his fingers were once again toying with the silver chain around his neck, but the next statement from Hermione jolted him back to reality. "I see Malfoy hasn't returned to Hogwarts," Hermione pointed out while glancing briefly at the Slytherin table.

A scowl formed upon Ron's freckled face at the name of his hated classmate, and darkly he said, "Who cares? I'm just glad we are finally rid of him. I still can't believe Dumbledore didn't expel him when he pulled that stunt on Hallowe'en."

Yet Harry remained silent, while his fingers were unconsciously pressing hard against the chain. When Ron, seeing Harry was spacing out, shook his shoulder lightly out of concern, Harry suddenly felt a sharp pain on his thumb. Startled, he looked at his hand, and saw the paper thin cut on his thumb that was oozing trickles of blood; he had apparently cut himself against the chain.

"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione immediately asked, her face full of worries as she held out her hand. "Here, let me take a look at it."

"I'm fine, Hermione," Harry automatically replied, and held his thumb to his mouth to draw out the blood. The metallic taste brought back a peculiar sense of deja vu; but not wanting to alarm his friends, Harry set aside his own bemusement for the moment. "It's just a small cut. Don't worry about it." But looking at his two best friends' faces, he knew he could not convince them otherwise; it was not just the cut on his hand that they were concerned about.

* * *

A week had passed by in a flurry of snow, yet there was still no sign of Draco Malfoy. The unease in Harry had grown to such proportion that it was getting all the more difficult for him to hide. Certainly this feeling of restlessness was unwarranted for; nonetheless, Harry could not brush it aside as if it was nothing more than a figment of his warped imagination.

It was the usual affair in the Defence Against the Dark Arts class: students practicing hexes and curses under the critical eye of Severus Snape, who was menacingly prowling about the room. Not one student was spared from his harsh criticism, and to the surprise of many, not even the Slytherins, whom he generally favoured, were immune to his vicious comments.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Ron muttered to Harry, "About time he picks his Slytherins apart as well."

Harry responded with a noncommittal sound; he knew by heart he would be the one to brace for the most cutting insults from Snape.

Apparently, Snape had heard what Ron said, and in brisk strides he stalked towards Harry and Ron. "Mr Weasley, if you can find the time to gossip about, then perhaps you would care to present the class with a demonstration? Or perhaps you are incapable of even such a small feat?" Snape whispered with an unpleasant sneer.

Ron's face was flushed with indignation, but Snape did not give him the chance to reply. "I thought so." To which the Slytherins snickered, and those close to Ron glared at Snape.

Angered at seeing his friend being insulted, Harry stepped up in defiance while staring coldly at Snape. "I don't see the point of you bringing it up if you are not even letting Ron answer, _sir._"

Snape's dark eyes stared hard at Harry, his face oddly unreadable except for a trace of distaste and something else Harry could not fathom, for it was neither loathing nor fury. "Be careful of whom you choose as your enemies, Mr Potter." And with that Snape simply walked away, leaving behind confusion in every student's mind.

When at last class was dismissed and the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was far behind them, Ron immediately burst out with various unsavoury comments about their teacher, to which Hermione shook her head in disapproval. Harry, who was walking alongside his friends, was dwelling over Snape's cryptic comment; he had a distant feeling that he had heard similar words being spoken by another person before.

The sudden change in Snape's attitude was also perplexing. Had it been in the past, Harry would have gotten both detention and house point deduction for his cheek, but today Snape did neither. Mentally shaking his head, he made some vague sound of agreement to Ron's rude opinions about Snape.

But a shrill voice, belonging to Pansy Parkinson, had caught his attention, "I can't believe Snape actually scolded me in front of the whole class!" The voice came from behind Harry and his friends, and instantly Harry perked up his ear and slowed his steps.

"You are not the only one who is surprised." Harry heard the lazy drawl of Blaise Zabini. "I wonder what sets him off in such a foul mood."

"Maybe it's because of Draco?" Harry's heart skipped a beat at hearing Draco's name. "That whole thing that happened on Hallowe'en? Maybe the Dark Lord-"

"We shouldn't talk about it here," Theodore Nott interrupted in a hush, and then Harry heard no more as the Slytherins went off to another direction.

The curiosity in Harry had piqued up, and turning to Ron and Hermione, he asked, "Did you hear what they said?"

"Yes," Hermione answered thoughtfully while tugging a wandering tress of twisting brown away from her face. "Snape is being particularly nasty because of Malfoy? I wonder why."

"Not to mention we didn't lose any house points in his class for once. It's like Hagrid eats Fang for breakfast." Despite being furious over Snape's maltreatment, Ron had enough sense to notice the oddity. "And didn't they mention You-Know-Who? Who knows? Maybe Malfoy left school to join the Death Eaters, and Snape isn't happy about that."

Dumbledore's words came flooding back into Harry's mind with unbelievable clarity, which prompted him to speak, "I don't think Malfoy would join the Death Eaters. His grandfather was against Voldemort, remember? And-" Harry caught himself in time as he recalled the promise he made to Dumbledore, and lamely he continued, "and I can't see the Malfoy who came back after the whole possession business would do something like that."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a meaningful glance, before Hermione elected herself to speak. "Harry, don't you think you are just looking for Sirius' shadow in Malfoy? I mean, I can see that sometimes Malfoy acts a bit like Sirius. But-"

"I know Sirius is really gone, okay?" Harry snapped more harshly than he had intended. "I've accepted that, and I'm not seeing Sirius in Malfoy. It's just- I just- I just don't think Malfoy would join the Death Eaters. Not this Malfoy anyway."

For once, Ron did not offer his opinion, except frowning at Harry quizzically with his mouth hung open. Did Harry just defend Malfoy? There was a similar look of confusion on Hermione's face as well, but quickly it transformed into a pensive one.

"Harry," Hermione said in a speculative tone, as though she was not sure how to phrase her question, "Is there something you haven't told me and Ron? About Malfoy?"

Indeed, aside from the promise he had made to Dumbledore, there were still things Harry had not confided in them, such as the Blessing or those strange dreams he had been having lately. Seeing as at the eye of this impending storm was Draco Malfoy, Harry deemed it wise to keep his silence, for the sake of everyone involved in this looming tempest that was just lurking beyond the horizon.

Unexpectedly, it was Ron who stood up for Harry. "Forget it, Hermione. Perhaps there are things Harry really can't tell anyone. I'm sure there are things you didn't tell us either." Ron said with a good-natured grin.

A tint of red fluttered onto Hermione's cheek, and she mumbled, "I suppose you are right."

And with that, the tension between the three of them had vanished. Harry gratefully grinned at Ron, who merely shrugged dismissively. And for the first time in weeks, Harry felt that some of the burden on his shoulders had melted away.

* * *

Stained glass windows depicted portraits of various saints from centuries past; rays of iridescence splashed upon bleak stone floor. A large ornate wooden cross stood tall behind the altar covered by red velvet, and before the altar knelt a woman dressed in elaborate black. Her hair was dark as darkness itself, her skin pale as a ghost, and her slender white hands pressed together in silent prayer. He could not see her face for her head was bowed, but he could see a wooden wand lay discarded upon the grimy floor. It was then he realized the ground was covered in blackened blood--

Hovering between the world of reality and the world of illusion, Draco at last opened his eyes to the tangible world once more. The first thing that entered his vision was the cauldron boiling beneath a cackling golden fire; and for a tantalizing moment, a sliver of panic crept into his heart as he could not remember where he was. Once his eyes set upon the Eurydice bust placed on the stone mantelpiece, however, memory flowed back into his sleep-ridden mind: he was in the old study chamber of Augustus Grindelwald.

Rich walnut wood panels surrounded the walls, while burgundy cherry wood covered the floor; it was impossible to tell that such a spacious, cosy chamber was located underground. Large bookcases filled with ancient volumes lined one wall, while along another wall stood a set of glass cabinets. On the other side of the chamber was a large work table strewn with various items, and at the centre of the table sat the bubbling cauldron.

Rising from the velvet armchair, Draco walked up to the table with feline grace, and examined the pale white liquid steaming in the brass cauldron. When he was satisfied that the potion was complete, he picked up a small piece of blackened bone from the table, and without further ado, dropped it into the liquid. The moment the bone touched the milky potion, it immediately corroded with a hiss while the liquid turned dark momentarily, before every colour faded away until naught was left but a cauldron full of clear, water-like substance.

Draco's face had turned inhumanly cold, like a merciless executioner who had raised his scythe before letting it fall; and yet his knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. Like a reflection of his anguish, candlelight wavered and shadows twisted in a macabre dance resembling that from an opiate dream.

At long last, with an impatient wave of his hand, the flame beneath the cauldron extinguished. Carefully he bottled a small quantity of the potion into a silver flask, and with his wand, he cleared away the content in the cauldron and banished it back to its former place.

Information he had obtained; artefact he had collected; now was the time for the raven to fly back to its little dreary nest.

* * *

When Harry went back to the common-room after dinner, he was immediately seized by Hermione, who was looking slightly pale, her warm hazel eyes almost frantic. She was holding a large book and several rolls of parchments tightly to her chest as though she feared someone would rob her of them.

For one nervous moment, Harry thought she knew of his secret; but his suspicion proved unfound as Hermione said with a meaningful nudge, "I've done some research on Augustus Grindelwald, and there's something you should hear."

Even as Harry breathed a sigh of relief, a sinking feeling had settled uneasily in his stomach; Grindelwald was the last topic he wanted to discuss with anyone, aside from Draco Malfoy himself. Nevertheless, Harry knew that Hermione would never exaggerate about matters of great importance.

After a brief pause, Harry finally replied, "Okay. I'll just go and get Ron." But before Harry could so much as turn around to see if Ron was in the common-room, Hermione had hastily grabbed his arm.

"No, it's better if you know about this first." Hermione spoke with such anxiety that warning bells sounded in Harry's mind. Forcefully she pulled him to a quiet corner of the common-room, and Harry had no choice but to follow her lead.

When they finally settled around a small table, Hermione carefully put her things on the table, and began, "What do you know about Grindelwald?"

Pondering for a moment while fighting the urge to shudder, he spoke as casually as he could, "Not much, just that he used to be Dumbledore's friend, and they studied at Hogwarts together. When he became a dark wizard, he fought with Dumbledore. He was defeated in the end, and he killed himself in front of Dumbledore. And there is something about the book he wrote that Malfoy used to perform the Evocation." A sudden sense of deja vu lingered in his mind, yet he was not certain what it was about.

"That's good enough," Hermione said while absentmindedly smoothing out the corners of the curled parchment. "I suppose you have gathered that he had done a lot of research on the dead and the art of necromancy? But before he was known as a dark wizard, he used to be an Unspeakable with the Ministry. As a matter of fact, one of his research subjects was the Veil."

It was like being rudely awaken from a dream that seemed too real to be a dream. As if meaning to hide away his fragile self from the world, Harry turned his gaze away from Hermione. He sensed those keen eyes of Hermione's searching his face, and he would rather remain ignorant as to what was reflecting within those pools of molten gold.

Thankfully Hermione decided to forego any comments, and merely continued, "Some time later, he left the Ministry and established a reputation as the authority in the field of necromancy. All the sources I've managed to dig up are all very vague about what happened during those years. But there is one thing worth noting.

"I got this book from the Restricted Section." Hermione gestured at the dusty book on the table, and carefully leafed through it to find the pages she wanted. "It mentions a string of murders that began around the turn of the century where at least some dozen people -- Anglican clergymen and wizards -- were found beheaded over the course of two decades." Hermione paused as though she was trying to ward off those horrifying images from her mind. "They called those murders the Guillotine murders, and the unknown assailant the Guillotine. And according to this book, at the time Grindelwald was rumoured to be a primary suspect, although no evidence of any sort could be found to connect him to the case."

A chill seeped into his warm body like a snake stealthily ensnaring its prey; he could acutely feel his hair raising in his skin. The image Hermione painted of Grindelwald was grisly indeed, as to be expected from a man who was like a poison that corrupted everything around it.

"I've read about the Guillotine murders in Muggle history books; they claim that those might be the workings of an admirer or an adversary of Jack the Ripper," Hermione interjected Harry's thought. "I have no idea some of the victims were wizards though, which means that the murderer was definitely not a Muggle. But out of all the books I've looked up, this is the only book that mentions the Guillotine case, so I don't know if what it says about Grindelwald being a suspect is true or not."

Taking an unconscious deep breath, Harry said, "But you still think that Grindelwald might be involved in this? What does that got to do with-" Then it struck Harry like a hammer from the gods above as he recalled the news he had been reading in the_ Daily Prophet_. "Those recent murders of people's heads being chopped off. Is that what you were thinking of?"

A nod from Hermione confirmed Harry's suspicion, before she lowered her voice to a whisper, "It's too much of a coincidence that right after Grindelwald appeared -- even just briefly -- in the world of the living, the type of murders that he had been accused of committing suddenly happens again."

"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Harry argued as he tried to read the book upside-down. "Perhaps Voldemort knows about the whole thing, and he decides to play copycat." But even as he spoke those words, he began to understand what Hermione was trying to get at. Yet, some unknown emotion in him willed him not to say it.

Noticing Harry's dilemma, Hermione spoke up instead, "Malfoy is the one being possessed by Grindelwald, and he's missing. Although I really can't imagine that a boy his age could commit these ghastly murders, still..." Hermione hesitated for a brief second, "he isn't really the Draco Malfoy we once knew anymore."

Fire burnt wildly in his heart, yet his body felt awfully cold. Softly Harry asked, "Is that why you don't want Ron to know about this? Because you know Ron will immediately jump to the conclusion."

"It's more than that," Hermione spoke with irresolution lining her voice. "I won't interrogate you about what's going on between you and Malfoy, but I can guess that Malfoy has something to do with the pendant you are wearing."

Harry tensed as if his body was frozen by frost, and Hermione had seen it all. "I just want you to be careful, Harry," Hermione said sincerely, and gave his hand a squeeze. "Even if you are unwilling to talk, at least promise me this."

Warmth flowed into Harry like spring breeze, a warmth that he both yearned and feared. To feel content had always scared Harry, for he always believed that at some point, everything would come to an end. Surely the pain of losing something one once held in one's hand was more painful than never having held it in the first place.

Shaking himself out of his musing, Harry regarded Hermione, who was the very embodiment of flaming courage and cool intellect, and a dear friend whom he had the fortune to meet. Only two words were all he needed to utter, "I promise."

* * *

Night fell upon the ancient castle like a spell that promised eternal sleep; and the waning moon was slowly dragging itself across the velvet sky.

Submerged in a fitful sleep that was filled with unmoving black robes, glassy eyes, and pools of rich crimson, a sudden touch of coldness upon his chest pulled Harry out of his dream. When his frantic green eyes settled upon the hazy but familiar contours of bedposts and drapes, he felt somewhat reassured to know he was inside the secured haven of the Gryffindor dormitory. As he lay still in his bed, listening to the soft snores of his fellow Gryffindors, he could not help feeling a tinge of envy for their undisturbed slumber.

Reaching into the collar of his sweatshirt, he pulled out the jade pendant, and clasped his hand around it. It had not been his imagination; the pendant had indeed become colder than before, though he could not begin to guess at why; and the person who possessed such knowledge was not here. As his thought strayed towards that of Draco Malfoy, the frustration that he had become acquainted with came by uninvited once more.

He had not told anyone about the amulet except to Remus Lupin, his former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The ever considerate Remus Lupin had not, of course, pushed Harry to divulge all his secrets. Nevertheless, a vague sense of anxiety alerted Harry that perhaps Lupin, who possessed such preternatural intuition, might have guessed at part of the truth already.

Harry did, however, tell Lupin about Sirius. As was expected, Lupin had looked saddened then, but by the end of Harry's narration, he seemed slightly more at peace. Harry supposed that perhaps like himself, Lupin had found his catharsis out of this whole ordeal.

Letting the jade pendant slipped out of his hand, he closed his eyes wearily. The nightmares were getting worse ever since the Winter Solstice, and he had an inkling that for once it was not Voldemort's doing.

A cold draught abruptly fluttered upon his face, and his eyes immediately snapped open with alarm. He was sure both the windows and the door were closed; nevertheless, he could see a sliver of firelight in the general direction of the door that was not there before. A rustling sound that resembled so much the beating of wings crept into his ears. As his pulse quickened, he discreetly pulled out his wand from under his pillow while lying as still as he could.

Squinting his eyes into the dark, he looked for any sign of abnormality. However, his eyes could not penetrate the dark corners where no light could reach. For a disquieting moment, he thought he saw something flashing within the shadow, but he could not make out for certain what it was.

And then he saw him: like a magician pulling a magic trick, Draco Malfoy emerged from the shadows that had shielded his figure, and stepped under the glow of the chilling moon. A long sword whose blade was gleaming red was reflecting the moonlight in all its ghastly glory. For a moment, Harry could not speak, nor move, nor breathe, as he watched Draco wielded the sword with such expert ease--

An oddly familiar coldness brushed against his cheek, and Harry woke with a start. Blinking furiously to wipe away the afterimage of the bright arc from his eyes, he found himself looking at a blurry figure that seemed to be hovering over him, until the figure was kind enough to slip his pair of neglected glasses onto his face.

Moonlight illuminated part of the figure's face, while the other half of the face was veiled by shadows. It was then that Harry realized he was looking at Draco Malfoy, and in sudden panic, he scrambled away from him, even as the observant part of him noted that the Draco Malfoy standing before him was not carrying a sword.

"Wha-" Harry was about to ask what Draco was doing here, but without a word Draco turned and strode to the door, a silent command for Harry to follow him downstairs. Torn between his instinct and his curiosity, he yielded to his curiosity once more.

Before long, they were seated before the burning fireplace that was once more aglow, its flame giving off the warmth that did not reach Harry's heart. Draco stared thoughtfully at the blaze for a long time in silence, without so much as a vague acknowledgement of Harry's presence.

When it looked like Draco was not about to speak, Harry asked impatiently while tightening the hold on his wand, "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

Dark grey eyes finally turned to him, and Harry instantly found himself under their scrutiny. A chill ran down his spine in apprehension, for he had a disturbing feeling that those grey eyes could pierce through any pretence he cloaked over his dark secret.

"I need to see for myself that you are still alive, that you did not get yourself killed through your overflowing curiosity."

Green eyes narrowed in agitation, and the blazing flame in the hearth was reflected in their depths. "I don't need protection, especially not from you."

A flash of something akin to anger appeared briefly upon Draco's face, before it vanished without a trace. "The Blessing is absolute, and it can only be broken when the last of the Malfoys are dead, that is, my father and I," Draco spoke quietly, not in defeat, but in simple acceptance.

For some unknown reason, Harry sensed a strange flutter in his stomach, but he pushed it out of his mind at the present. "What would happen if I die first?" Harry asked, his eyes stared straight into Draco's.

"You wouldn't die first," Draco replied with a mocking smirk. "That's the point."

An uncomfortable feeling settled in Harry's mind; he did not ask to be Blessed by Abraxas Malfoy, but it appeared that whether he or Draco was willing or not, there would be no escape from the binding of the Blessing. As if searching for some relief from the disturbing truth, Harry clasped his hand around the amulet. He thought he caught a strange flicker within those stormy grey eyes of Draco's, but it could be just an optical illusion created by the interplay of shadow and light.

Silence filled the deserted common-room as neither felt inclined to talk, for the distrust between the two boys could not be easily dissipated. And yet, there was something that had been plaguing Harry's mind, of which if he did not speak now, he feared he might not be given another chance.

Gathering all the courage he could muster, he took a discreet deep breath, and said as calmly as he could, "Malfoy, are you blaming me for what happened? The possession and all?"

Draco had no reply as he looked out the window into the fading sky, where the sorrowful moon was falling like the evening star. Just when Harry was about to give up on eliciting a response from Draco, Draco said evenly, "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," Harry replied resolutely, green eyes steady with grim determination. "I need to know, Malfoy."

Slowly and deliberately, Draco turned to regard Harry with a flash of silent anguish that spoke of inner torment. Grey eyes narrowed with some unnamed emotion, but it vanished as swiftly as it appeared. "Yes, I do blame you for what happened to me." His voice was soft, but like a knife it pierced into Harry's heart.

_"Everything has a price. If you desire to live, you must offer the sacrifice."_

Once more Draco looked away from Harry as he recalled those words being spoken by one who was as unpredictable as the wind. A pact he had made, and he would not -- could not -- turn away now.

Harry could find no words that would offer any comfort to Draco or to himself; they would be just empty words devoid of meaning. Once more silence permeated the air as if the world was being shrouded in a cloak; the only sound that could be heard was the hissing of the firewood and the tolling of the grandfather clock signalling the arrival of the cruel dawn.

* * *

Simple, without unnecessary extravagance; a study of surprisingly classical design that was made for deep contemplation rather than as an explicit display of power. Unlike the rest of the castle, it was here that the air of gothic influence was the least noticeable. For someone who seemed steeped in flamboyance, the office of Albus Dumbledore was tastefully understated.

Sitting behind the cluttered mahogany desk was Dumbledore himself, who sported an oddly subdued navy blue robe and a smile that seemed laden with weariness. "I am glad that you have decided to come back to Hogwarts, Draco. I understand that it has been hard for you these past few months, but allow me to ask: what is the reason for your delay?"

Clear, azure eyes beneath those half-moon glasses were studying Draco carefully, and unblinkingly Draco returned the gaze with shrewd grey eyes. "I apologize for my late return. I understand that I may have broken the codes of Hogwarts, but there was a certain family matter which I must attend to at once."

"I see," Dumbledore whispered as he seemed to realize the underlying meaning in Draco's words. "I assume it has been taken care of?"

Never once wavering from Dumbledore's searching eyes, Draco spoke with inhuman composure, "I got what I needed, so yes, it has been taken care of. But there is something I would like to ask, professor."

The genial expression upon Dumbledore's face remained unchanged, but the brief glint within those blue depths spoke otherwise. "Why of course, that is how one learns."

"I would like to know if my grandfather had ever contacted you prior to his death, or if he had set up a meeting with you."

Pondering for a brief moment as he reached for those remote memories of bygone days, the chaos that ensued following Abraxas Malfoy's death resurfaced once more in his mind's eye. Some time had passed before Dumbledore spoke with a hint of genuine regret, "Yes, he did. It was unfortunate that he had taken ill before our meeting, and I never got the chance to talk to him."

A phantasmal scent of night-lilies lingered in Draco's mind like a wisp of smoke that refused to be caught. "Did you know why he set up a meeting with you?"

"I had my suspicion," Dumbledore answered slowly, yet Draco had an inkling that he knew more than he let on.

Draco spoke no words for some time as he stared straight into Dumbledore's eyes, like a skilled chess player dissecting his opponent's every move. At the same time, Dumbledore studied Draco with keen eyes, yet Draco's face was completely unreadable, an expression that members of the Malfoy family were notorious for. It was a battle of the will that was no less fierce than a wizard's duel.

At long last, Draco broke off the tension with a careless half-smile; and Dumbledore was struck by a sense of melancholic nostalgia. "I suppose it can't be helped," Draco said lightly, and got up in one smooth movement like the cultured young man he was. "If there is nothing else, I would like to take my leave."

"Yes, you may go," Dumbledore replied mildly, yet Draco did not miss the silent scrutiny within those sharp blue eyes.

"Good day, sir," Draco said with a nod, before he left the circular headmaster office behind him.

Dumbledore watched the door closed with a soft thud; the sound reminded him too much of the sound of a severed head hitting the ground by the felling of the sword.

* * *

_To be continued..._

A/N: Thanks for sticking with this crazy fic of mine! Part I turns out to be the same length as the entirety of _Black Veil_, so I'm splitting it in three sections. Draco is a bit MPD (split personality) here, don't you think? And for anyone who's wondering about my other two ongoing fics, don't worry. I'm working on the next part of _Sympathy_, as well as throwing some ideas around for _Somnus_. As for the promised multi-chaptered sequel to _Muses_ and _Lullaby_, I'll work on that when I finish _Ravens_.


	3. Part I Contd

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters do not belong to me. _Sherlock Holmes_ belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part I: A Baroque Masquerade, Continued_

When it was known that Draco Malfoy had returned to Hogwarts, a small commotion was stirred up among the student body. Many had originally thought that like the other missing students, he had opted not to return to Hogwarts; but any hush whispers would cease the moment his silent figure strolled into their line of vision.

Golden was the Great Hall still, with thousands of candles floating in the air, giving off their gentle glow. The enchanted ceiling beneath the arched roof laid bare the velvet indigo that was the glittering celestial heaven. Nevertheless, the atmosphere within the Great Hall was of guarded watchfulness, as though a dangerous beast, who would bare its teeth at any moment, had intruded into their ranks. And nowhere was the tension more pronounced than among the students of the Slytherin House.

No words were exchanged between Draco and his fellow Slytherins; yet Draco seemed completely at ease as he savoured the aromatic banquet before him under the nervous glances of many. The other Slytherins, on the other hand, were filled with a nervous energy as if they were under the imposing scrutiny of a strict mentor.

"Damn, I thought we were rid of him for good," Ron said with a disdainful scowl; he seemed to be one of the few in Hogwarts who was unimpressed by Draco's presence. "Why did that git have to come back anyway?"

In secret Hermione stole a glance at Harry, a glance which he did not return. Although he knew the reason as to Draco's return, as Dumbledore had said to him on the morning after the disastrous Hallowe'en, the Blessing was a matter strictly between him and Draco.

As his dark green eyes swept through the Great Hall, he caught sight of Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall -- the Head of Gryffindor House -- engaging in an involving discussion of some kind at the head table. From the furtive glances McGonagall were throwing at the Slytherin table, it was relatively obvious who was the subject of their conversation.

As if sensing Harry's gaze, Dumbledore's cerulean eyes turned towards his direction without the least display of surprise. Unsure as to how he should react, Harry nodded slightly at Dumbledore, who returned the gesture with an encouraging smile. Harry had the distinct feeling that Dumbledore knew something was bothering him, and compulsively he reached for the pendant once more. With some unease, he let his gaze glide over to where Draco was seated, and at once, the conversation they shared last night played out in his mind like a broken record.

Had he expected Draco to act differently than what he did last night? Certainly he had not, but it was no small matter to learn that he was the cause of Draco's suffering. As Draco had said so himself, it had been merely a series of unfortunate coincidence. Yet it was difficult for Harry to accept the idea that such disaster could happen out of sheer randomness.

"Harry?" Hermione tentatively asked, her brows pressed into a knot as she sensed Harry's brooding mood. "Do you want some dessert? Some tea maybe?"

"No thanks," Harry replied automatically like a tired actor who had rehearsed his few lines one too many times. "I'm full."

"You really are starting to sound like my mum, Hermione," Ron interjected with a half-hearted joke. "Sooner or later, you are going to start fussing about my uniform and Harry's hair."

Hermione gave Ron a weak glare that sprang more from annoyance than from outrage. "I won't be worrying about that. But if you do not start keeping up with your study schedule, you are going to fall behind, and you won't be able to advance into the final year."

"Well, it's only January, right?" Ron waved his cream-filled spoon around, accidentally flinging some cream onto Neville Longbottom's face. "Sorry, Neville. Anyway, there's plenty of time before exams come around, so I'll be alright."

"Or so you say. Just don't come crying to me for help when exams are two weeks away."

"Don't worry, I won't come crying to you until _one_ week before the exams."

Despite being distracted, Harry could not help smiling at their antics. Seeing the smile on Harry's face, Ron and Hermione felt somewhat relieved, though their anxiety had not lessened.

Ron had done all he could to shield Harry away from Hermione's excessive worrying, but in truth Ron was also curious about what had been plaguing his best friend's mind. No, rather, he knew _who_ it was that had been troubling Harry's mind lately, but he could not understand why. Although Ron tried not to show it, he was beginning to feel strained as Harry continually refused to confide in them.

Sending a harsh glare across the Great Hall to the one who had started it all, Ron found Draco Malfoy glancing briefly at him with an oddly aloof expression. In that one instance, his enmity towards Malfoy rose up like high tides being drawn by the pull of the moon. It was Malfoy, however, who turned away first when he was being addressed to by Pansy Parkinson.

"Did you have a good winter holiday?" Pansy finally gathered up the courage to initiate a conversation with Draco, but her voice sounded meeker than usual.

At that Draco eyed her coolly, before a strange smirk appeared upon his lips. "You are all curious about what I've been up to during the time of my disappearance."

The Slytherins who were listening keenly to the exchange instantly straightened their posture at Draco's statement, for they were indeed curious, even though they were still unnerved by the metamorphosis that Draco had undergone; it was like seeing a caterpillar transformed into a butterfly.

"Does it have anything to do with the Dark Lord?" Blaise Zabini inquired.

"Maybe," Draco answered vaguely. "I'm sure the Dark Lord has plans of his own already set in place." He threw a glance at Theodore Nott, who was sitting a little apart from the other sixth year, and Nott returned his glance, albeit grudgingly so.

"What about all those beheadings? They say the Guillotine is back, is it also part of the Dark Lord's doing?" Millicent Bulstrode asked eagerly.

A faint flicker appeared in Draco's deceptively reflective eyes at the mention of the Guillotine, but no one caught sight of it. "It won't do for us to discuss such matter in the Great Hall now, would you not agree, Miss Bulstrode?"

Millicent Bulstrode visibly flinched as if she was whipped by Draco's words, even though Draco's tone was hypnotically mellow. Grey eyes glimpsed a set of bottomless black eyes staring at him with increasing wariness, and Draco allowed himself a small smirk that sent a chill of foreboding to those who had witnessed it.

Without further explanation, Draco stood up and casually strode out of the Great Hall, with many sets of eyes watching his retreating back. Even without the looming figures of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle to accompany his leave, there was a certain commanding aura about him that could no more be ignored as to ignore the chill in the winter air. When Draco at last disappeared behind the elegantly carved door, various chatters were renewed, and the smothering tension that had been permeating the Great Hall was dissipated.

* * *

Standing before the meticulously organized oak desk, Draco mused about the vast differences between the headmaster's office and the office of the Head of Slytherin House. Unadorned stone walls were covered with shelves after shelves of glass jars, within which were unknown specimen and dissected parts floating in suspension. A desk and two straight-back chairs were the only other furniture in this dimly lit chamber. There was an air of gloom about this underground chamber; and without the benefit of a window, it might very well be passed off as a secret laboratory of a mad scientist.

The occupant of the office was currently studying Draco with unfathomable eyes, an unspoken challenge that Draco defiantly rose up to. At length, Snape said in carefully timed measures, "Mr Malfoy, perhaps you will enlighten me as to the reason for your absence."

"I have already spoken to the headmaster," Draco replied coolly. "I have family matters I must attend to."

It was clear that Snape did not believe his words, and he revealed as much in his next statement. "Be that as it may, it will be unwise if certain punishment is not arranged for your action."

At that Draco smirked sardonically, his grey eyes narrowed, in amusement or in irritation Snape could not tell. "More detentions, I presume? I suppose I might as well resign to it." He paused for a brief moment in contemplation. "I see you have heeded to my warning concerning Potter."

A flash of instant distaste darkened Snape's face like rain clouds abruptly moving in to cover the sky. "It is merely for the sake of respecting the Blessing that I comply to your request."

"And for the sake of upholding my grandfather's wishes as well, I presume?" Chilling grey iris gleamed dangerously like a sharp blade ready to plunge into one's heart.

In silence, Snape unflinchingly met his gaze, but the quickening of his pulse told otherwise. Memories of a past better left forgotten flashed within his mind, and unavoidably he recalled the disturbingly familiar sweet fragrance tingling his olfactory senses.

Suddenly, a smile crept onto Draco's thin lips in a pretence of humour. "I take it you have not mentioned the matter concerning the Blessing to the Dark Lord?" quietly Draco uttered, a tone that was at once polite and demanding.

"I deem it unnecessary," Snape said with equal softness, a lurking menace that could not be mistaken for a sign of weakness.

"Is that so?" Draco stared off into a distance, as though his mind had ventured forth into an unknown land. Then tersely he said, "There's something I hope you can help me with. I've recently acquired a certain, eh, exotic potion that I have never encountered before. So I was wondering if perhaps you will be able to satisfy my curiosity." From his pocket he produced a small silver flask, and he placed it on the desk.

Snape did not spare a glance at the flask, but instead focusing his entire attention upon his prized pupil. Guesses were unnecessary, for Snape could already tell what was stored in the flask; the implied threat therein was not lost on him either. But neither Snape nor Draco was the kind of person to bluntly state a fact, and hence Snape replied accordingly, "I shall look into it."

There was a faint twist of irony in Draco's seemingly bored expression. "As always, your assistance is appreciated, professor."

* * *

As January crept by in slow motion, it brought along a flurry of disorderly snow, swirling and scattering by the command of the bitter wind. Heavy fog filled the sky and buried the sun beneath its weight like an unmarked grave composed of ashes of human remains.

Within the confine of the Potions classroom, the sixth year students were busily concocting the antidote for the poison they were each assigned to. The Potions master, Horace Slughorn, stated very plainly that this particular assignment would count for a generous portion of their final grade. The students took heed to his words, and were working diligently before their messy work tables and boiling cauldrons; Hermione in particular was working in an almost frantic pace. Nevertheless, even as Harry attempted to focus his mind on the task, his eyes were constantly drawn towards the head of blond at the front of the classroom.

After the brief conversation they had in the Gryffindor tower the night Draco came back to Hogwarts, Harry had not talked to Draco since; for what could he possibly say to Draco after what happened? It was never his intention to create such disaster, having never known that such small gesture as lighting a fire in the dark hours on Hallowe'en could summon the spirit of the dead.

A sensible part of him was telling him that it was not entirely his fault, that the possession Draco had suffered through was due to multiple factors: the Evocation ritual that Augustus Grindelwald devised himself, the candles that Harry had lit, and the unknown factor that concerned Draco himself. However, he could not ignore the guilt that was slowly eating away at him like a silkworm devouring a fresh leaf.

And now it appeared that Draco had gone against Voldemort because of Harry; the burden of which was far too great for Harry to bear. He could not withstand the thought of having to be protected as though he was made of glass; was it not enough that his parents and Sirius had died protecting him, and the Order of the Phoenix was guarding over him? Admittedly he had committed follies of his own, some of which could never be redeemed, but he was hardly helpless on his own.

A dull ache was beginning to hammer at his head, and with a grimace he rubbed his forehead. The idea of going to Dumbledore or Madam Pomfrey about his headache crossed his mind, before he discarded such thought. It was different from the headache he had when Voldemort was intruding his mind; for one thing, his scar was not burning. Instead there was a constant thumping inside his head that sounded like his own heartbeats, but it was not serious enough that he could not bear it in silence.

Cleaning up the remaining ingredients that had gone unused, he went over to the basin in the corner to wash his hands. As icy water poured out from the mouth of the gargoyle onto his hands, his mind wandered to the dreams he had been having lately. It was all a jumble of images that made little sense, which slipped away from his grasp the moment he was awake. But his instinct was telling him that there was something important within this bewildering panorama that he had somehow missed.

While recently he found it easier to fall asleep, he did not feel restful at all when he woke up. The ever perceptive Hermione was on the verge of dragging him to see Pomfrey, with or without his consent; but as always, Ron had come to his rescue, and for that Harry was eternally thankful.

Sensing someone was standing behind him, Harry automatically moved to the side, thinking that perhaps he was in the way. Therefore, it startled him when he heard an unexpected voice saying, "Headache?"

He twisted his head around, and there stood the dark figure of Draco Malfoy. There was a speculative look on Draco's face that Harry liked not; it reminded him a little too much of Draco's grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy.

It took several seconds before Harry realized that Draco was waiting for an answer. "Yeah, but how did you know?" Harry said awkwardly, for he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"It's very obvious," Draco replied in an even tone. "Gryffindors simply don't know how to keep their secrets."

A pang of nervousness spread within Harry at Draco's words; Harry could hear the double meaning therein all too clearly. Those frightening visions he had of Draco trying to kill him had subsided ever since Draco got back, but Harry could still recall them vividly in his mind. The situation was made all the more uncomfortable as Harry wondered if Draco might have known about those visions he had all along.

Harry diverted his gaze back to the sink in an attempt to hide his discomfort. "That's just because you Slytherins are a sneaky bunch."

"True," absently Draco replied, without so much as a witty retort. "Close your eyes."

"What?" Taken aback, Harry turned to stare at him. "Why?"

There was a hint of annoyance on Draco's face. "Do you have to be so bloody stubborn all the time? Just do it."

Harry meant to retort, but once more his accursed curiosity had gotten the better of him. Before his mind fully registered, he closed his eyes as he was told. A cool hand covered his eyes briefly as though in hesitation, before it passed onto his forehead, its touch surprisingly light. When the hand left his forehead, Harry found that the throbbing headache had disappeared.

Blinking his eyes several times, Harry stared at Draco in confusion. Draco had stated as much his detestation for Harry; it was inconceivable that he had actually alleviated Harry's headache for him.

"What-" Harry was about to say, but Draco was already moving away from him to the supply cupboard. Bemused green eyes followed Draco's feline movement, yet Draco no longer took notice of him, as though what had happened mere moments ago was nothing more than an illusion.

As Harry glared frustratedly at Draco, a strange urge rose up in him like a hunger that could not be fully sated. He wanted to reach out to Draco... and do what? But as swiftly as this urging came to him, it disappeared in a flash, as though it had never existed in the first place. Thinking it was nothing more than his imagination, Harry dried his hands and went back to his seat, unaware of a pair of ashen grey eyes watching him closely like a hawk.

* * *

Several days later, the burying snowstorm had finally relented, but the morning light continued to be dull and bleak, inadvertently shifting the biological clock of teachers and students alike at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Many students, still trapped in a half-daze after the first class, shuffled through the crowded corridors as though they were marionettes being pulled by invisible strings.

Yawning noisily, Ron looked out the window with a dispirited expression on his face. "If the weather keeps up like this, our Quidditch match with the Hufflepuff might be cancelled. Not that I'm complaining, but it's getting very stuffy in the castle."

Harry agreed with Ron's sentiment; being confined within the castle save for a trip to the greenhouse for their Herbology class had left him feeling especially restless, although the sad weather was not the only reason for his agitation.

Another case of decapitation had been reported in the _Daily Prophet_, and this time the victim was a junior member of the Department of Mysteries. He was found on the doorsteps of a small chapel near his home, his head separated from the rest of his body.

A sense of apprehension fluttered in his stomach as he came upon an unsettling hypothesis. What if Grindelwald was indeed the real culprit behind the Guillotine murders a century ago? And what if, as Hermione had suggested, Draco indeed had something to do with those murders? It was not improbable, especially considering that there was the pact between Draco and Grindelwald, the terms of which still remained a mystery. But since Draco was at Hogwarts when the latest victim was discovered, surely he had nothing to do with it?

"Maybe we can go visit Hagrid during our free period," Hermione suggested, while shoving some of the books she had taken out of the library for extensive reading into Harry's arms. With a sigh, Harry conceded to carry the books for her, but at least Hermione had the grace to smile gratefully at him. "We haven't visited him in a while."

"Yeah, let's do that," Harry replied with no small amount of guilt; he had been too preoccupied by Draco and the increasing violence outside these castle walls that he had not given a thought to visit Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper of Hogwarts, and the person who first introduced Harry to the wizarding world.

A sudden shove from behind caused Harry to collide with Hermione, and the books in his arms fell to the ground in a series of loud clatter. Frowning at the offender, Harry found that it was Cormac McLaggen and his friends.

There was an unpleasant smirk on McLaggen's face as he said airily, "Be careful of where you are going, Potter. And you too, Weasley." And with that, McLaggen and his friend went off laughing.

"What a prat!" Ron was the first to react in indignation. "Just because he didn't make it into the Gryffindor Quidditch team..."

"Just forget it," Hermione calmly said, while stooping down to retrieve the books scattered on the ground with Harry's help. "He didn't make it into the team, and that's that."

Although Ron continued to fume, Harry had already turned his mind away from McLaggen when he caught a glimpse of Draco turning his head away as he and Nott rounded a corner. The sight of Draco brought to Harry's mind the confusing scene that had played out in Potions. Even now Harry was unsure of what really happened; perhaps this was also what the Blessing entailed? Then again, Draco's behaviour was becoming very erratic lately that it was impossible to discern what he was truly thinking.

_One more riddle to add into a whole bag of riddles, _Harry thought dryly as they made their way to the greenhouse for their Herbology class.

It was some time later when they had their hands full of rare plants they were supposed to study that Hermione unexpectedly said, "I think there's some hidden meaning behind it all."

"Huh?" Ron was not the only one who could not comprehend what Hermione was talking about; even Harry was staring quizzically at Hermione.

"I'm talking about all those decapitations," Hermione stated while waving an impatient hand. "There is no point in using the most grisly method possible to commit random murders if they can use the Killing curse."

"Well, being threatened with having your head chop off would certainly convince someone to agree to anything," Ron grumbled as he tried in vain to pull his arm free from the vine of a particularly nasty looking plant.

"Sure, it elicits fear, but it's different from what the Death Eaters usually do." Hermione paused for a fleeting moment, long enough to cast a spell with her wand to ward off the leeching vines. "What the Death Eaters do is to create chaos in the Muggle world and to get rid of anyone who stands in their way. But all those decapitations sound more like what a serial killer would do: to target one victim at a time. Not to mention that all those victims have vastly different backgrounds. Some are Muggles while others are wizards."

"You are not saying Voldemort has nothing to do with this, are you?" Harry interjected with a troubled frown; some part of him was reluctant to think that Draco might have anything to do with these murders. "As for the victims, maybe they don't care who they kill as long as someone is killed?"

"Maybe, but what I want to say is that the purpose these decapitations serve is different from what we see the Death Eaters are doing so far. For one thing, Death Eaters always leave the Dark Mark in the sky after they... did what they did, but there was no Dark Mark present in any of the decapitation sites. This is unusual, since the Dark Mark floating in mid-air is practically their signature."

Even someone as sceptical as Ron had to grudgingly concede that Hermione had a point. "Maybe they didn't want anyone to know it was them who did it?"

"But if that is the case, it completely defeats the purpose of eliciting fear among general public," Hermione pointed out. "The decapitation itself is a signature, just like the Dark Mark." At that she stole a sidelong glance at Harry, who did not react.

"Wait, don't tell me you are thinking that other than the Death Eaters, someone else also decides to join in on the killing spree?" Ron was by now looking slightly nauseous at the thought.

"Or maybe," Harry pondered aloud as he rubbed his temple lightly, having finally caught on to what Hermione was implying, "all these murders is actually meant as a secret message to someone? Or perhaps to grab someone's attention? Decapitation is nothing if not dramatic."

"I tend towards it being used as a means to catch someone's attention, considering that the victims appeared to be randomly chosen," Hermione said briskly as her mind pored over all the facts she had found out about the recent murders. "Of course, we can't tell who the key players are or what the motive is yet. But there's something about this latest murder..." She did not finish her sentence, but Harry knew what she was about to say.

Grindelwald used to be an Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries, the same place that the latest victim worked in. Many of the victims in the original Guillotine murders that Grindelwald had been accused of committing were clergymen; and the latest victim was found in front of a church. Coincided Grindelwald's reappearance in the world of the living with all these murders by beheading, it was impossible to miss the connection.

"Anyway," Hermione began anew, "I have tried to gather some information on each victim to see if there might be the slimmest chance that there is a connection buried in there, but I couldn't find anything yet."

Ron was looking at Hermione, both appalled and impressed. "Hermione, I know you are the resident Gryffindor know-it-all, but this is getting scary now."

There was a faint blush on her cheeks as she replied with obvious embarrassment, "There was a time when I actually thought about becoming a detective. I blame it on my uncle who is obsessed with anything that have to do with Sherlock Holmes." Seeing the confusion on Ron's face, she added, "He's the most famous fictional detective in the Muggle world."

"Hey Ron, do you know anything about the Guillotine?" Harry asked offhandedly, hoping that perhaps Ron, who was born and raised in the wizarding world, would know something about that.

The light-hearted expression that Ron wore quickly faded into darkened sombreness. "That's not something wizard folks like to talk about. It's bad luck, they say." Then comprehension dawned on him. "Oh, that's why you are bringing it up. Don't know much about it, and don't want to anyway. No one likes to talk about it. It might not be as bad as talking about You-Know-Who, but the older folks still shudder at the name."

"So the Guillotine is a taboo in the wizarding world. No wonder why I can't find any reference to it except in Muggle books and books from the Restricted Section."

"But surely you know something about it?" Harry relentlessly asked Ron, but it was not merely curiosity that drove him to be so persistent in his query.

Swallowing once, Ron at last told them what little he knew about the Guillotine with some reluctance; it was not much different from what Hermione had discovered, except that Ron never mentioned Grindelwald in his narration, and neither Hermione nor Harry was inclined to point it out to him yet.

"Bloody hell," Ron swore to himself. "You don't think _it_'s back again, do you? As if we don't have enough things to worry about." It was a sentiment that both Harry and Hermione wholeheartedly agreed upon.

But several questions were still swirling in Harry's befuddled mind. What was Grindelwald's role in this? Who was the real culprit behind these recent murders? And why did he or she commit these murders? However, there was one question that made Harry's blood run cold just from the thought of it: was Draco involved in any of these?

* * *

Dinner time at Hogwarts had become a feast of intense scrutiny and veiled vigilance, as teachers and students alike were preoccupied by the situations that were beginning to escape their bindings. Ripples of unrest had already spread their way across the make-believe tranquility of the Hogwarts castle. And at the eye of the storm was Draco Malfoy, who had attracted more than one pair of wary eyes, yet he seemed unbelievably composed.

"I don't like this, Albus," McGonagall remarked to Dumbledore as they made their way through the main course. "Mr Malfoy is garnering too much attention. He's practically asking You-Know-Who to come after him."

"The Malfoys are never known to be the silent kind," Dumbledore answered cryptically as he studied his pupil from afar, before addressing to Snape. "What is your opinion on this, Severus?"

"Mr Malfoy definitely knows by now," Snape stated stoically while contemplating the content in his goblet. "He can take care of himself, but then there is also the matter of Mr Potter." There was a twist at the corner of his mouth as he said Harry's name.

"The Malfoy Blessing, a blessing and a curse," McGonagall gave Snape a warning glance. "And we have no way of knowing what the curse really is." At that she threw a worried look at Harry, who was chattering with his friends at the Gryffindor table. "Is there no way for Mr Malfoy to retract the Blessing?"

"I'm afraid not, as the Blessing is too sacred a symbol among the Malfoy bloodline for Draco to even contemplate violating it," Dumbledore replied with a sigh. "Anyhow, whatever happened between Harry and Draco is a matter that they must resolve on their own. It would not do for us to interfere."

"We are going to leave them be, and do nothing?" McGonagall exclaimed, slightly mortified to hear those words coming out of Dumbledore's mouth. "They are too young to handle something like this."

"The matter has already left our hands," Snape proclaimed with an impassive expression that revealed naught of what was lurking in his mind. "And that is how it is."

Without a word, Dumbledore swept his weary eyes to where Draco sat at the Slytherin table. After a brief pause, Draco turned to regard him with frozen eyes; and Dumbledore could not help wondering who was hiding behind the young, pallid face that was looking too much like a mask for this elaborate masquerade.

* * *

The dull headache that had departed since that day Draco performed a minor spell on him had come back; and Harry was fighting the urge to rub his forehead, not wanting to alarm his friends even further. Instead he placed his hand over the jade amulet beneath his clothes, its familiar contour giving him some comfort.

Not noticing anything was amiss, Ron and the other boys were discussing the upcoming Quidditch match in earnest, but Harry could not focus his mind on what exactly they were saying. Hermione, on the other hand, was watching Harry with concern painted on her face, but she refrained from asking Harry what was wrong.

"Harry, maybe you should turn in for the night?" was all Hermione allowed herself to say so as not to appear intrusive.

With a wry smile, Harry said in weak humour, "What about my homework?"

"You won't be able to put your best effort into your homework if you are tired," Hermione reasoned, before giving Harry a fond smile. "Go on, I'll make sure Ron doesn't get too excited over his Quidditch talks."

Grateful for Hermione's consideration, Harry gingerly got up and said, "Well, good night."

"Good night, Harry." Hermione watched Harry briefly, before turning back to her meal, unaware that someone else had slipped out behind him.

Slowly Harry walked out of the noisy Great Hall and into the draughty corridor that had darkened considerably, as the bright full moon climbed steadily towards the dark night sky. The echoing sound of shoes striking ancient stone floor seemed to mirror the maddening throbbing in Harry's head, a strange synchrony of thumps that was gradually magnifying itself.

Furiously rubbing his forehead, he allowed his legs to carry him along the familiar path back to the Gryffindor tower. He felt a little better now that the surroundings had grown quiet. Although a part of him thought that Hermione was overreacting, his sensibility reasoned that perhaps he should take it easy as Hermione had said.

When he reached the landing of the winding staircase, he pulled aside the tattered tapestry whose colours had faded beyond recognition, and found that there was someone standing behind it. He was about to give his greeting when all of a sudden the mystery person forcefully shoved him back, and every thought in his mind scattered as he stumbled over the landing with a surprised gasp.

Reflexively he reached out for anything that could prevent his fall, but it was too late as he tumbled down the stairs. Shadowy arched roof interchanged with white-washed stone steps before his eyes as he fell; he thought he heard the beating of wings, but every sound became a haze when his head connected painfully with the harsh stone steps. A voice commanding yet comforting rang in his ear before dark shadows pulled him into sweet oblivion.

* * *

The unique blend of potions and freshness from newly changed sheets permeated the air of the hospital wing -- the domain of the school matron, Madam Pomfrey. Brass beds with pale white covers ran neatly against the lengths of the wing, while several large wooden cabinets stood in a corner; it was a place designed solely for its utility. The only personal touch discernible was the two paintings on the wall, and a vase of black night-lilies placed upon one of the nightstands.

Currently only one bed was occupied, and its occupant had already garnered two visitors. Ron and Hermione stood by the bed, and looked gravely at Harry's pale face. Harry had sustained a concussion and a broken arm, and had yet to awake. According to Pomfrey, the only thing they could do now was to wait for Harry to wake up on his own.

"Someone must have attacked him," Ron said with barely suppressed anger at seeing his best friend lying in bed, injured and unconscious. "It definitely wouldn't be the first time someone wanted to kill him. If I ever find out who did this..."

"But the professors can't be sure that someone had attacked Harry." Hermione tried to reason with him. "Perhaps it's just an accident, seeing as Harry wasn't feeling well at the time."

"How can you say that, Hermione?! Harry's still out of it! And you think that Harry just slipped on the stairs?!"

"I'm just trying to be reasonable. Look, I'm not saying it's improbable that someone might want to hurt Harry, but it is also possible that this was nothing more than a simple accident that can happen to anyone, including you and me."

"If you two are going to keep on arguing, you will do it outside." Having lost her patience with the two Gryffindors, Madam Pomfrey finally snapped. "I won't let you bother my patient."

Although Pomfrey was a petite woman, she could be very formidable when she was angry, especially when the well-being of her patients was in jeopardy. Not wanting to be thrown out, Ron and Hermione ceased their quarrel for the moment.

Muttering under her breath about overly excited youngsters, Pomfrey examined the bandage around Harry's head and the cast on his broken arm with clinical efficiency, while Ron and Hermione watched on in mutual silence. Once she was satisfied that Harry's injuries were healing nicely, she fussed over the blanket covering Harry, but her lips tightened as she took care to keep her hands away from the jade pendant rested upon his chest.

Hermione noticed the expression on Pomfrey's face, and she could not help wondering whether Pomfrey knew something about the pendant that Harry had been wearing. "Madam Pomfrey, do you know what this pendant is for?"

A look of startlement flashed across Pomfrey's face as she turned sharply to glance at Hermione; Ron seemed equally surprised by Hermione's question.

"It's an amulet, if I'm not mistaken," Pomfrey replied slowly. "I've seen a piece just like this one in the past. In fact, it looks exactly like the one I've seen, but..."

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione had a suspicion as to where Pomfrey might have seen it before, even though she hoped she was wrong.

Taking a deep breath, Pomfrey began anew. "If I didn't know better, I would think this is the same amulet that Lucius Malfoy once wore when he attended Hogwarts many years ago."

* * *

_To be continued..._

A/N: First of all, thank you very much for your reviews! You have no idea how much it means to me. Hmm, I was under the impression that someone like Hermione might be interested in mystery novels because she's more of the logical type who likes explanations for just about everything. And being a mystery novel fan myself, I could not possibly go without injecting some mysteries into the story. Some of the details are implied, and some will be made clear later on. Anyway, thank you very much for reading this labyrinth of a story.


	4. Part I End

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The play _Salome _belongs to Oscar Wilde. The opera _Dido and Aeneas _belongs to Henry Purcell.

Warning: Dark themes, disturbing imagery, and violence

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part I: A Baroque Masquerade, End_

A soft caress against his cheek made him involuntarily open his eyes; the familiar sight of the fluttering black veil greeted him. This time, however, he did not waste a moment to ponder about the accursed veil; instead he swiftly pulled it aside. Beyond the veil was a majestic grand hall, and without hesitation he ventured within.

A series of large lattice windows lined one wall, admitting the pale glow of the moon into the dark hall; like iron bars of a gilded cage were the dark silhouette of window laths painted upon white granite floor. High above was the vaulted roof supported by flying buttress, where disfigured stone sculptures crouched in wait, silently watching, bearing witness to all that had happened within these panelled walls. There was no one about, though he had a distinct feeling that he was being watched.

Directly opposite the entrance where he came in was a large marble double door, where scenes of pandemonium were carved upon its surface in all its grisly details. Feeling oddly drawn to it, he crossed the grand hall in brisk strides, and halted before the door. A small voice in his head was warning him that if he were to open the door, there would be no turning back.

_But I have already past the point of no return, haven't I? _he mused bitterly, and with determination he grasped the bird-shaped door handle. The door silently parted with little effort, as though it had acknowledged his presence.

Behind the door laid a cemetery, where an endless stretch of green awaited. Above was the cloudless sky of cerulean blue that seemed to extend beyond the horizon, where it met with the green earth. White gravestones lined in neat rows like miniature soldiers forming their ranks. The atmosphere in this place was one of peace and tranquility.

Afraid of destroying this scenery of calm, he lightly trod upon the grass, and examined the inscriptions engraved upon each tombstone with interest. Only the names of the deceased were etched on the stone: James Potter, Lily Evans-Potter, Sirius Black, Cedric Diggory, Abraxas Malfoy, Amelia Bones, Augustus Grindelwald, Evans Rosier, Gideon Prewett, Dorcas Meadowes, Christabel Dedlock...

At last he reached a gravestone that was unmarked, a smooth slab of white stone that revealed naught of who was slumbering beneath the earth. It was some moment later when he heard it; a steady stream of dull thumps coming from somewhere beneath the carpet of green, a sound that strangely echoed his own racing heartbeats.

As confusion slowly gave way to comprehension, every part of his being froze in horror; someone was being buried alive in this grave. In an instant, he was on his knees, digging furiously at the grass that had grown over the grave, unheeding that he had broken his nails in his haste. Desperately he clawed at the mass of grass and dirt, hoping beyond hope that he would reach that person in time--

"Potter, wake up!"

A sharp slap to his cheek brought Harry out of his dream, and blinking furiously he stared up at Draco who was standing over him with a candle-holder in his hand. Panic began to creep up to him, but he forced it down with a nervous gulp. Wordlessly Draco handed Harry his glasses, and Harry accepted it gingerly.

When the world refocused itself once more, Harry attempted to sit up from the bed, only to be attacked by a wave of dizziness. A pair of surprisingly warm arms held him, and helped him lean on the pillow that was propped up against the wall. Settled at last, Harry regarded Draco intently, but Draco was not looking at him as he examined the amulet hanging from Harry's neck.

As if sensing Harry's questioning gaze, Draco spoke quietly, "It's been a day since you fell down the stairs. You have a concussion and a broken arm."

It was then Harry realized he was in the hospital wing, and the memory of the incident flooded back into his mind. Checking himself over, he noticed that his right arm was immobilized by a splint, and his forehead was bandaged; his cheek still stung a little where Draco had slapped him. Otherwise, it appeared that he was relatively unharmed.

"You are here to check whether I'm still alive or not?" Harry said in a half-hearted display of sarcasm.

"You could say that," Draco replied distractedly as though his mind was somewhere else, before he finally let go of the pendant, letting it bounce harmlessly against Harry's chest. "I suppose you have asked someone to look over the pendant before you actually started wearing it?"

Harry felt slightly abashed that Draco stated so plainly Harry's distrust of him, even though it was the truth. "Yeah, I have Professor Lupin looked it over," Harry answered cautiously while observing Draco's reaction closely.

There was a hint of wistfulness in that impassive expression of his, which made Harry wonder if Sirius might have left a little more than a mere shadow of himself within Draco's mind during the possession. Abruptly Draco made to leave, but Harry grabbed onto Draco's arm and hindered his exit.

The frustration that had been mounting upon Harry ever since last year burst free from its confines. "Look, I know you have every reason to hate me, and I know that you only helped me because of the Blessing, but I am in on this as much as you are. Can't we at least work something out?"

Slowly Draco turned to study him, his stormy grey eyes unfathomable. "I don't owe you anything."

Meadow green pupils hardened with resolve as Harry evenly returned Draco's gaze, refusing to back down. "At the very least, you owe me several explanations. And don't you dare think you are the only one affected by this whole fiasco."

For some moment, those cold eyes of Draco's were scrutinizing him in calculated silence, before Draco spoke in the soft tone reminiscent of his late grandfather, "You are having visions."

A shiver coursed through Harry's veins at the affirmation that Draco did indeed know about the visions he had been having. "You- do you know anything about it?"

"Grindelwald had looked behind the Veil once, and he was never the same since." Although Draco's words were intentionally vague, Harry had gotten his answer anyway, and it chilled his bones at the implication.

"Am I going to become like him?" Harry could not stifle his shudder, nor could he loosen his hold on Draco's arm even if he wanted to.

"I don't know," Draco said quietly, before turning his gaze towards the window where the night sky awaited. "But the Veil was not the only thing that drove him to the brink of madness." A film of haze veiled his crystalline eyes, as though his soul had separated from his flesh and fallen into the well of memories.

"Then what? Why did he murder all those people? Why cut off their heads?" Harry relentlessly asked, even as he felt disoriented by the unnerving truth laid bare before him.

A wry smile had graced upon Draco's pale lips at Harry's query, a smile that was neither cynical nor eerie. "'I would that they presently bring me in a silver charger the head of Iokanaan.' That was what Salome asked for after she danced for the Tetrarch Herod." _(1)_

"Salome?" Images of black robes, pale hands, and pools of crimson flashed across his mind; he could almost taste a coppery scent that was at once comfortingly strange yet horribly familiar.

He waited for Draco to elaborate, but Draco spoke no more. The luminous moon was trapped within those mirror-like pupils of Draco's, reflecting a sinister light that gleamed brightly even in such dimness. Upon the midnight sky, a raven was crying its hoarse cry from a distance as if bringing forth the sign of ill omen.

It took some time before Harry remembered that he still had some questions to ask Draco. "What is the curse of the Blessing?" Harry asked with a shiver, for he had a distant feeling that it was no longer Draco Malfoy who was talking to him, but an ancient creature who wore the skin of a boy of sixteen, sprang from the memories of the departed.

"Everything has a price, Harry Potter," Draco spoke in a barely audible whisper that sounded oddly omniscient to Harry's ear. "Everything has a price."

"What is my price?" It was all Harry could do to stare with apprehension at this strange creature before him. "What is yours?"

But Draco had reverted back to his usual aloof self, and with a decisive move, he extracted his arm from Harry's grip, and quietly left the hospital wing. The candle he had left behind wavered violently for several heartbeats before it went out, and night closed in on Harry once more.

* * *

Day could not have come by soon enough. Waking up to the warm sunlight that had not been seen for some time, the visit from Draco last night seemed no more than a remote dream from bygone days.

Glancing about him disinterestedly, Harry saw a pool of black petals lying around the glass vase that was seated on one of the nightstands. A series of brisk footfall pulled him back to the present, and moments later Pomfrey entered the ward with a tray of food.

"So you are awake," Pomfrey said curtly while putting down the tray on the table. "Do you feel dizzy? Queasy?"

"A little bit of both," Harry replied truthfully as Pomfrey examined his injuries closely.

"Think you can hold down some porridge? You need to eat something before you take your potion." To which Harry nodded once. "You are lucky that all you got was a minor concussion and a broken arm. McLaggen wasn't so lucky."

The unexpected mention of McLaggen's name brought a start in Harry. "What do you mean?"

"He was brought here last night. Fell down the stairs while you were still out like a light," Pomfrey chided as she moved the table closer to Harry, and gestured at one of the beds on the far side that was closed off by a set of curtains. "Broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, broken leg, a sprained ankle, and head trauma. At least he didn't break his neck. Honestly, I don't know what is it with you children and staircases."

Harry could only conjure up a weak smile at Pomfrey's comment, while his mind was swimming at this piece of news. The memory of his _accident _played out in his mind once more, and in his mind's eye he saw clearly the culprit who pushed him down the staircase. He had a distant feeling that Draco might have something to do with McLaggen's _accident_, although Draco did not mention anything of the sort last night.

"Harry! I'm glad you are finally awake!" Before Harry knew it, he was being embraced by Hermione. "We were so worried when Madam Pomfrey said you have a concussion."

"I'm alright now," Harry mumbled, slightly bashful by Hermione's display of affection.

"Glad to have you back, mate," Ron said with a grin that somehow seemed strained to Harry's eye. There was a hint of a grimace on Ron's face as though something was bothering him.

"Yeah," Harry replied noncommittally as he wondered what was on Ron's mind.

When Hermione released him at last, Pomfrey said, "Five minutes, no more. And make sure he eats." And then she went back into her office, leaving the three of them in peace.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked in earnest as she sat down on the bed.

"Not bad," Harry said distractedly, before picking up the spoon and swirling the mushy content in the bowl around. "Did I miss anything?"

"You missed a whole day's worth of class, and it looks like you will miss today's as well." Hermione said with a smile. "But I'll let you off for now, since you are recovering."

"Thanks." Harry grinned, before turning to Ron. "Hermione has gotten soft, don't you think?"

But Ron did not smile, instead there was a strange look upon his face, one that Harry had not seen before. "Harry," Ron began gravely, "you shouldn't get too close to Draco Malfoy anymore."

Stunned could not even begin to describe how Harry felt about Ron's sudden warning. "Wha- what are you talking about?"

"We know that Malfoy gave you his father's amulet," Hermione spoke in her usual composed voice, while she shot a warning look at Ron. "We don't really know what's going on or why he gave that to you, but you should be careful."

Harry's mind was reeling at Hermione's words; never once had Draco told him that the amulet he was wearing belonged to Lucius Malfoy. Then again, Draco had neglected to mention a lot of things to him.

"The amulet must be cursed," Ron said as he tried to master his rising temper. "Malfoy's trying to kill you, I just knew it. I bet he's the one who pushed you off the stairs too."

"Lupin had already taken a look at the pendant, and he said there are no dark curses on it," Harry explained as calmly as he could, but he could tell that it only infuriated Ron further. "And he didn't push me off the stairs. So see? Malfoy isn't trying to kill me. I don't think he's stupid enough to try anything funny right under Dumbledore's nose anyway."

"How can you be so damn sure he wouldn't?! Have you forgotten who his father is?!" Ron spat furiously. "And what the hell are you doing wearing his amulet anyway?! He has brainwashed you, that's what this is!"

It was no longer an option to hide away what he had kept from his two best friends, and reluctantly Harry said, "I'm not brainwashed. Malfoy gave me the amulet only because of the Blessing his grandfather gave me."

Stunned silence lengthened until Harry thought he would be suffocated under its weight, while Ron regarded him with a blank expression. "The Blessing. You are talking about the Malfoy Blessing." Ron stated, his tone oddly emotionless. There was little Harry could do except to nod his head in affirmation, but he could already tell Ron had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

For once a piece of knowledge had eluded Hermione's extensive studies, and she asked, "What is the Malfoy Blessing?"

"That means Harry is under the protection of the Malfoys." Ron's expression was closed, as though every bit of his emotions had vanished into thin air; it was an expression that Harry found very unnerving.

This revelation had enlightened Hermione's mind like a piece of the puzzle finally clicked into place. When she pondered about all the facts she had gathered thus far, she was beginning to see vividly the big picture that had been nothing more than a blur before. But something troubled her still, something that she could not put her fingers around, and it frustrated her so, for she hated not knowing.

"He's plotting to gain your trust, isn't he? So that he can get into Dumbledore's good grace. I bet he wants something from you as well. The Malfoys are all like that, even if Abraxas Malfoy is marginally more respectable than Lucius." It was odd to hear Ron's comment about Abraxas Malfoy, seeing as the Weasleys and the Malfoys always appeared to be mortal enemies.

But what disturbed Harry more was that Ron's accusation against Abraxas Malfoy was perhaps not far from the truth. That did sound like what Abraxas Malfoy would do, if Harry's brief encounter with him was anything to judge by. And for once he could not think of anything that could counter Ron's claim.

Hermione, on the other hand, was thinking about the Blessing and its implication. "So, if Harry is under the Malfoy family's protection, then does that mean that both Malfoy and his father will have to shield Harry against Voldemort?"

Ron cringed slightly at hearing the Dark Lord's name being spoken; Harry did not even blink.

"That's what Dumbledore said," Harry replied wearily, suddenly feeling tired of keeping secrets from his friends. "And because Lucius Malfoy is serving Voldemort, the whole thing gets very messy." He did not mention Narcissa Malfoy, for he did not wish to break his promise to Dumbledore.

"And I suppose Voldemort didn't know about the Blessing yet?" Hermione asked intently as she looked from Harry to Ron, who had slipped into brooding silence.

"I guess. But sooner or later Voldemort will find out about it when he tries to kill me again." Harry ran his uninjured hand through his hair, unintentionally messing up his unruly hair even further.

"And then Malfoy will be stuck in between." It did not take long for Hermione to realize the implication, but something about this whole Blessing affair was bothering her still. "But why would his grandfather want to protect you, even knowing that it will cause Malfoy even more trouble?"

It was yet another question Harry was unable to answer; but Ron was the next person to speak up. "To hell with them, I don't trust the Malfoys one bit. For all we know, maybe it's a trick." Apparently Ron was not about to give up without a fight. "Perhaps Malfoy will choose to side with his dad instead, and then he'll give you over to You-Know-Who. You are making it pretty bloody easy for him."

"Haven't you listened to a word I said?" Indignation flowed out of Harry, even though the voice of reason inside his head was asking him why he should feel the need to be angry on Draco's behalf. "He's not trying to kill me, and he sure as hell isn't going to hand me over to Voldemort. Why won't you believe me?"

As if he was being punched in the stomach, every bit of Ron's fury had died away. He was left with nothing more than a hollow feeling that was worse than his agitation over his best friend's refusal to confide in him.

"I believe you, Harry, but I don't trust him," Ron said quietly. "I- I tried to pretend that nothing's wrong, and I've never asked you what's going on until you are ready to tell us yourself, but this is just too much." There was bitterness in Ron's voice as he willed himself not to shake. "And you know what? What's worse is that you don't trust me or Hermione enough to mention this to us."

It was painful to hear those words coming out of Ron's mouth, and it took Harry great effort to keep himself from yelling at Ron. "I just don't want to get you two involved in this," Harry explained with desperation clearly displayed in his hoarse voice. "It's already bad enough that you are targeted by Voldemort because of me." He did not mention the disaster in the Department of Mysteries, for there was no need to. "And I knew you are going to read the whole Malfoy business the wrong way."

A flash of some emotion Harry could not discern appeared briefly on Ron's face. "And you think you know him so well? Forget it, I have enough of this." And with that Ron stalked out of the hospital wing.

Had he been wrong in wanting to protect his friends? Harry wondered ruefully, the ache in his chest refusing to go away. It was not just about the Blessing or even Malfoy; the ghost of Grindelwald that had refused to rest was too dangerous for either of them to handle, and he would rather leave his dear friends out of the nightmare that was lurking in wait to pounce upon him.

"Harry," Hermione began softly, her misty hazel eyes gleaming with a bright light that Harry could not stand looking upon, "I can understand how Ron feels. We want to help you, but it's difficult when you won't tell us what's wrong."

It was impossible for Harry not to feel moved by Hermione's words, yet he could only stay firm to his resolve. "I know, but I just can't tell you." It took every ounce of his will to make the words form in his mouth. "I'm sorry."

A sigh escaped Hermione's lips, but she did not look at all surprised, as though she had anticipated Harry's response. "You are just as stubborn as Ron, you know that?" She got up, and patted Harry's uninjured hand once with an exasperated smile. "You better get some rest now. I'll see you later."

Harry watched her walked towards the door, but before she left, she turned to look at Harry with a serious expression on her face. "I honestly hope Malfoy is as you say, Harry. Great expectation might lead to great disappointment." And then she was gone, leaving Harry with her parting words that were as cryptic as Malfoy's many riddles.

* * *

_"When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs created no trouble in thy breast. Remember me, but forget my fate. Remember me, remember me." (2)_

The voice was soft but clear, reminding one of a flowing river when all the snow had melted; but it was not her voice that drew him to her like a moth being drawn by the deadly flame. Nay, it was her wild fragility, a combination of aristocratic grace and untamed passion, of strength and of vulnerability. It was her madness that lulled him further into the world of Thanatos, she with her little black heart. His cruel Salome, the woman he murdered--

The melancholic singing melded with the droning of the professor, and soon faded into nothingness until the only voice remained was that of the professor's. But Draco was not attentive to the lecture, his gaze following the moving clouds in the hazy sky.

In a distance laid the frozen lake that had been buried by blinding white snow. It will be some months still before snow melted into water and the first sprout on the willow tree blossomed, and it will be some months still before the doorway between the world of the living and the world of the dead would be opened once more.

A flash of pain spread across his chest, which made him draw his brows together. It was to his relief that class ended swiftly thereafter, and he packed up his things as usual, taking care to hide the unconscious tightening of his fist and the faintest hint of a tremor in his shoulders from prying eyes.

Deciding to forego dinner, he headed back to the Slytherin dormitory, unheeding to Pansy's timid beckoning. Yet, as he was about to head towards the grand staircase, he was unceremoniously stopped by Ron Weasley.

Darkly Ron glared at Draco, his wand already in his hand. Natural instinct told Draco to pull out his own wand, but his reason told him to wait and see, and with little effort he overrode the desire to attack Ron Weasley.

"Malfoy, I don't know what it is you are up to, but you better stay away from Harry," Ron said bluntly, rage flashing dangerously across his face. "Otherwise, I will make you regret it."

With ease Draco slipped back to his former, despicable self, and he promptly put on a contemptuous sneer that effectively masked his increasing agitation. "And what exactly are you going to do? Talk me to death?"

By now the students who were in the corridor were lingering about, waiting to see what would happen in bated breaths; Draco wanted nothing more than for these meddlesome spectators to go away.

In one fluid motion Ron brought his wand upon Draco. "Don't think I won't curse you, you sneaky bastard! If you don't leave Harry alone, I swear I will make you suffer!"

_You have no idea what true suffering really means, _Draco mused morosely, and was about to throw another round of insults at Ron when Snape appeared.

"Weasley! Fifty points from Gryffindor for attacking a fellow student! And I will make sure your Head of House learn of this." Snape eyed Ron with intense dislike, and Ron returned the favour with a furious expression before he angrily stalked away. "Mr Malfoy, you are coming with me."

Draco had expected as much, although he did not foresee it would take so long before Snape dared to act. In silence Draco walked alongside Snape, who spoke no words. The gathering crowd was soon dispersed, disappointed that nothing came of the confrontation between the rivalling Gryffindor and Slytherin.

A moment later Draco found himself inside Snape's office once more, but this time he did not allow his attention to stray, for he needed every last reserve of his discipline to prevent himself from displaying any weaknesses in front of the man he trusted little.

"I heard from Mr Nott that preparations are almost complete," Snape came straight to the point as his black eyes surveyed the boy before him clinically, "with your assistance."

"I have my own reasons, professor," Draco said with his usual polite tone that belied a hint of condescension. "However, allow me to reassure you that everything shall run according to plan."

"Whose plan would that be, I wonder?" Snape responded without skipping a beat.

"Whose plan indeed." Draco allowed a hint of a sardonic smile to appear upon his thin lips. "I presume you have identified the potion I have left in your care?"

Impassive though Snape appeared to be, Draco had caught sight of the slightest trace of a tremble that spelled of intense emotions, of guilt.

"I've heard of rumours concerning a certain unnamed potion that makes use of a curious combination," Draco spoke nonchalantly, yet silver grey eyes glimmered like a sharp blade. Various facts he had discovered during his research was brought to the forefront of his mind, effectively distracting him from the searing pain upon his chest. "_Aqua Tofina_ and _Minium, _extremely poisonous unless they are properly prepared Both are key ingredients used by alchemists in pursuit of the Elixir of Life. Apparently, a certain potion-master has perfected the formula for a base solution using the aforementioned ingredients, which can be turned into either a poison or a healing potion depending on what additional ingredients are added. _(3)_

"For instance, adding in the petals of the night-lilies that are in bloom under the full moon is said to create a poison that is both untraceable and undetectable. The only tell-tale sign is the blackening of the bones once it is administered, but by then the intended victim would have been dead already. It's a perfect poison for assassinations, don't you think? And because it is a relatively unknown poison, there is no known antidote exist. Even a bezoar may not be able to counteract its effect due to the fact that _Aqua Tofina _and _Minium_ are minerals, unlike most poisons whose composite comes from plants and animals. _(4)_

"But of course, this is nothing more than hearsay, a fascinating story. Would you not agree, professor?"

Snape spoke no word for it was no longer necessary; neither would he defend himself nor would he deny his involvement.

After a brief pause, Draco asked softly, "My father didn't know the truth, did he?"

"Not at the time, I do not know whether or not he learnt of it afterwards," Snape spoke in his usual whisper, resigned to the exposing of the secret that had haunted him ever since he realized to whom his creation was used against.

A sliver of indescribable emotion flashed across Draco's face, before his visage was close once more. "However the case may be, by this you are indebted to the Malfoy family." Draco's voice hardened with such forceful dominance that reminded Snape of the regal figure that he had held in awe in his youth. "I ask that you refrain from interfering, will you accept my term?"

Gazing at the young man who looked so much like his predecessors, Snape replied rigidly as if swearing a sacred oath, "Yes, I shall comply to your term."

"Good," Draco said calmly, knowing well that his strength would not hold for long. "I shall take my leave then." Not bothering to wait for Snape's reply, Draco left in brisk strides.

The twisting corridors of the dungeons looked like a never-ending labyrinth from a nightmare, and standing tall and proud, Draco pressed on; even though no one was about, it would be disgraceful to collapse in as public a place as the corridor. He allowed his legs to bring him along the familiar trail back to the Slytherin dormitory, although his mind was swimming in disorientation.

Pain had spread to the rest of his body, and he could feel blood soaking into the front of his shirt. It had reawaken the memory that he had wanted desperately to forget: a dishevelled man with blood-shot eyes, a desperate cry for help that never arrived, the dead grey sky, a harsh voice reciting an incantation, the face of his father, the flash of the knife before it fell...

In his mind's eye, he saw his younger self lying in front of the Malfoy Manor, bloody and broken, glassy eyes staring unseeingly at the ashen sky.

When at last he stumbled into his room, his legs and his will could support him no more, and like a broken marionette, he collapsed onto the floor. Stubbornly he bit his lips to prevent himself from screaming out as agony slowly tore him apart. Following his silent command, every source of light in the chamber extinguished; he willed darkness to shield him from the bleeding wounds in his being and a phantasmagoria of shattered memories playing cruelly inside his mind.

* * *

It was in a gloomy Scottish afternoon when Harry was at last discharged from the hospital wing. When he went down to the Great Hall for lunch, he was greeted cheerfully by well-wishers, but the usual jeerings from the Slytherins were conspicuously absent. Sweeping his eye over the whole length of the Slytherin table, he could not see Draco anywhere, which in itself was both a relief and a disappointment.

When he settled in his usual seat beside Hermione, she gave him a somewhat distracted smile. It was clear that the matter was far from over, but it seemed Hermione would let it be for now. Ron, on the other hand, was another story. Harry greeted him and tried to catch his eye, but Ron only made a grunt as acknowledgement, before he buried himself in the latest issue of _The Quibbler_.

Harry was about to open his mouth, when Seamus Finnigan leant close to him, and spoke in a low, conspiring tone, "So, is it true?"

"Is what true?" Not for the first time, Harry acutely felt as though he was missing something again, and he liked it not.

"Come on, everyone says that it's McLaggen who pushed you down the stairs," Seamus said with a wicked grin. "And he got it himself soon after. Very convenient, eh?"

Harry's stomach lurched uneasily at Seamus' words; he had not told anyone about McLaggen's involvement in his supposed accident. The only person who might have known of this was Draco Malfoy. Was he the one who started the rumours then? But seeing as Dumbledore had known of the Blessing, would not Draco be implicating himself for McLaggen's injury? "I wouldn't know," was all Harry could say without giving too much away.

"Well, everyone's talking about it," Dean Thomas, the more sensible one in the lot, interjected with a bemused expression, as though not entirely believing that Harry knew nothing about it. "They say McLaggen fell down the stairs because someone wanted a payback for what he did to you, or something like that."

"It's like having a guardian angel looking out for you," Neville Longbottom said, which caused everyone to stare at him; Neville's face immediately turned pink. "Well, that's what my Gran would say."

_Guardian angel? _Harry thought, somewhat amused by Neville's comment. _That's hardly the image I would imagine for Draco Malfoy._ However, as his mind travelled back to all that had happened since he learnt of the Blessing, Draco did appear to be watching out for him, albeit in his own intrusive way. This particular train of thought surprised Harry; perhaps he had come to trust Draco a little after all?

There was a frown of disapproval on Hermione's face as she looked at Harry; clearly she had come to her own conclusion about what happened. Harry could not see Ron's face for he was hidden from view, but judging from the terribly wrinkled magazine in his hands, Harry could only assume that Ron had figured it out as well.

Obviously enthusiastic about getting the scoop of the story, Seamus eagerly said, "We all know Hermione would never break school rules, so we figure it could be Ron, but he won't tell us anything. And of course there's that episode between him and Malfoy yesterday."

"What episode?" Harry immediately asked, his heart racing as he threw a glance at Ron, who steadfastly refused to look at him.

"Ron almost hexed Malfoy if Snape hadn't _conveniently _showed up." Dean shrugged; it took Harry some restraint not to inquire further. "Kind of weird, isn't it? For the moment there, I thought it's Malfoy who attacked you, and that's why Ron went after him. But now everyone says it's McLaggen who did it. Makes you wonder what really happened."

"Yeah, is it really that slimy git McLaggen who shoved you?" Seamus nudged Harry's ribs none too gently.

Everyone close by who heard Seamus' words was looking expectantly at Harry, who was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. By now he was quite certain that Draco was the one who spread the rumours, though he could not help wondering whether it was to clear his name, or if there was some ulterior motive behind it all.

"I'm not sure," Harry lied while playing with the goblet that was half filled with pumpkin juice. "It happened so fast that I didn't pay much attention to that."

A collective sigh of disappointment could be heard throughout the table; but Harry could feel Hermione's keen eyes searching his. "You sure you didn't see anything? You aren't just covering for someone, are you?" Seamus was relentless in his pursuit for more gossips.

"Come on, you heard the man," Dean said while giving Harry an apologetic look. "Don't mind him. He's been looking to dig up people's dirt all year long."

Against the backdrop of Seamus' righteous outrage, Harry grinned wryly, and absentmindedly brushed his fingers against the pendant that was once more hidden beneath his clothes. But his thought was disrupted as a white figure descended from the arched roof and landed on his shoulder in a beautiful glide. Large amber eyes stared soulfully at him, and he smiled gladly at his new companion.

"Hi Hedwig," Harry patted his beloved owl once, and gave a small piece of ham for Hedwig to nibble on. Hedwig happily accepted the treat, but not before she dropped a letter onto Harry's empty plate.

The sight of the letter made Harry halt for a moment; he had received only a handful of letters ever since the beginning of the school year. While Lupin had written to him at times, those occasions were far and few.

Gingerly Harry picked up the piece of parchment shaped like a pinwheel, and unfolded it. Upon the parchment was written a line of cursive script, "Same place, after class." The letter was unsigned, but Harry already knew who the sender was.

With quickened pulse Harry stuffed the note into his pocket; none of the Gryffindors save Hermione noticed the sudden tenseness in Harry's stance. "It's him, isn't it?" Hermione whispered softly so that no one but Harry could hear what she was saying.

Harry stiffened defensively, and fumbled for words. "It's nothing, really. Don't worry about it." Even as his mind was preoccupied by a vague mixture of dread and anticipation, he could tell he had put up a poor act that convinced no one, not even himself.

* * *

When Harry arrived at the same spiral staircase where he and Draco first clashed over what happened on Hallowe'en, he was slightly breathless from running up several flights of stairs. Gazing up, he saw Draco leaning slightly against the railings overhead; there was a distracted air about him, as if his mind was anywhere but here.

"So? What do you want?" Harry asked as he stopped short beside Draco. Now that Harry was getting closer to Draco, he could see Draco's visage was as pale and haggard as a sick man. At the sight, a strange emotion welled up inside of Harry that reached deep into his core.

"I see Weasley has finally found out about the Blessing," Draco drawled coolly, his eyes fixated upon the stained glass window in a distance. "While his fierce loyalty to you is admirable, I suggest you keep your friends' mouths shut about the Blessing."

Feeling both pleased and offended on behalf of his friends, clear annoyance lined Harry's voice as he said, "Despite what you might think, Ron and Hermione know what discretion is. They know what to say and what not to say."

Harry thought Draco would retort with a rude comment of his own, but Draco kept whatever thought that was running through his mind to himself. It gave Harry no choice but to initiate the conversation instead. "I've heard your mum has gone away."

"Heard from the headmaster, no doubt," Draco was swift to reply as he gripped the railings lightly. "If you are beating yourself over this, then stop it. You are not the only reason why she must leave."

_Is Malfoy trying to console me? _Harry thought with a start, though he could not help wondering about the other reason for Narcissa Malfoy's sudden departure. "Okay," Harry said vaguely as he glanced at Draco's profile. It had not been his imagination; there were dark shadows under Draco's eyes as though he had not slept a wink. "You never told me the amulet you gave me belonged to your father."

"There was no need to." Draco's head abruptly snapped towards Harry's direction, eyes flashing with swift anger; the sudden crack in his detached demeanour stunned Harry. As though belatedly realizing he had revealed too much, Draco spoke anew in a calmer tone. "It was a gift from my grandfather to my father when he was still a child. It is said that jade can repel evil and misfortune."

"It didn't keep your father away from Voldemort," Harry jested half-heartedly while studying Draco's face, but it appeared Draco had put on his impassive mask once more. For some unknown reason, Harry felt a strange pang of disappointment.

There was a brief pause. "No, it didn't," Draco replied, before turning back to look at the delicate stained glass once more. The window depicted a man being bound on a rock while an eagle was devouring his liver; it was a grisly scene, yet the vibrancy of the image made it seem unreal. "Do you know the story behind this stained glass window?" Draco asked with a nod at the window.

"No," Harry answered truthfully, uncertain as to what was Draco trying to get at.

"That's Prometheus. He committed a crime by bestowing the gift of fire upon human, and he was punished by the gods for that. One supposes there are times when one must commit a sin for the greater good."

"Does attacking McLaggen qualify as one?" Harry said deliberately as he stared hard at Draco's profile. "Did you do it?"

Sending a sidelong glance at Harry, Draco said nonchalantly, as though Harry's accusation concerned him not, "It's just a warning, so there's no need for you to get overly excited about it."

"So what? Everything you do from now on all comes back to me?" Harry burst out agitatedly. It was not merely the fact that Draco had admitted he was the one who attacked McLaggen that irked Harry, but it was the fact that Harry himself was the cause that bothered him greatly. "I don't need you going around threatening people for my sake."

"I didn't do it for you." In contrast to Harry's rising temper, Draco was as preternaturally cool as an automaton. "I was merely trying to rectify my oversight." He bowed his head slightly as he looked over the railings at the ground level; from this great height, it was like staring into the abyss. "It would be a disgrace as a Malfoy if I cannot at least accomplish this much."

But Harry was no longer listening, for he suddenly noticed, for the very first time, how white Draco's neck was beneath the blackness of his robe. A strange desire crept into Harry's mind as it urged him to reach out and touch that vulnerable neck, its summon as seductive as a siren's beckoning. Hovering between hesitation and impulse, he reached out tentatively, but a trill of unearthly notes made him halt and withdraw his hand as if burnt.

Out of nowhere, a magnificent bird of crimson and gold glided down from the dark recess of the roof, and a piece of parchment fluttered down at its trail and onto Draco's outstretched palm. As soon as Draco caught the parchment, Fawkes the phoenix soared once more, and disappeared in a flash of fire with a heart-rending cry that sent a frightening shiver down Harry's spine.

Twice Draco read the note addressed to him, and then with the slightest flick of his wrist, the note burst into flame and turned into nothing more than useless ashes that scattered into the air.

Bemused Harry studied Draco's face; a distant feeling of forgetfulness loomed over Harry like lurking fear. Shaking himself out of his daze, he questioned Draco instead, "A note from Dumbledore?"

"Yes," Draco surprised Harry with a candid admission. "He wants to see me in his office."

"Oh?" Harry mumbled vaguely as he absently contemplated the view beneath him. Stone steps spiralled downward in never-ending circles, leading down to the unlit bottom that suddenly seemed endless. From this dizzying height, he could well imagine dark beings lurking about, calling forth his descent into their hell.

A touch of ice pressed against his cheek, violently pulling Harry back to reality. He snapped his head around to look at Draco, whose frozen grey eyes were observing Harry with the keenness of an established hunter. Speech escaped Harry as he found himself unable to move, being captivated by those mesmerizing eyes that were gleaming a shade of gold. Cold hand tilted Harry's head to the side, revealing his neck beneath his white shirt. Equally cold lips lingered over his neck where his pulse was racing; Harry could not help but flinch.

"Do take care," Draco spoke softly, his breath warm and his voice silky. It brought a thrill to Harry, of fear or of something else Harry could no longer discern. "It is very far to fall from here."

As if suddenly doused by water, Harry repelled from Draco, before he saw a flash of bright light in Draco's hand that materialized into a shining dagger--

Collapsing heavily onto the harsh stone floor, Harry stared at the empty air where Draco had stood only seconds before. It was like walking in a wakeful dream, yet the tingling sensation of ice burning into his flesh still lingered upon his skin.

* * *

Evening descended upon a relatively uneventful day; but the sky beyond the snow-covered earth was a sea of pale red, foretelling the fast approaching of a tempest. Gazing at the sight from behind an arched lattice window, Draco's soul had escaped the trapping of the flesh, to the time that could have been the past or the future, for time held no bound over the space between this world and the next--

Silvery white was the glorious grand hall lit only by the brilliant moon adorned in the midnight sky; an interplay between cold light and dark shadows was splashed across the granite floor.

"I'll make a deal with you," Augustus Grindelwald said in a mellow voice that was like rich, vintage wine; a small, disarming smile graced upon pale lips.

A man of indescribable age, there was a certain timelessness about Grindelwald's face that seemed both ancient and youthful at the same time. Curly light brown hair, classical features that spelt of refinement, and a lean body that beheld a natural, feline grace: a man of great charm he appeared to be, not what one would expect of a dark wizard who was well versed in the macabre art of necromancy. Only through those oddly mesmerizing hazel eyes that glimmered with intellectual brilliance could one detect a certain hint of unrest; those were the eyes of a man who was at once detached and obsessed.

"And why would I want to do that?" Draco replied defiantly, distrust barely cloaked beneath his facade of calm. He had known of Grindelwald's reputation; a wizard revelled in the study of the dead was a danger in and of itself.

"Without my help, you will die very soon," Grindelwald pointed out with a smile that managed to appear both pleasing and disturbing. "Even if by some mysterious fortune you survive the possession, you will not be able to escape the fate that awaits you."

It was the truth that Grindelwald spoke of, that Draco had known already. Yet he was not so naive as to think that it would come without a price. "And what will you get out of this _deal, _should I agree to it?"

"Oh, nothing you can't afford," Grindelwald said nonchalantly with a casual wave of his hand. "That I am sure of. As a matter of fact, should you agree to this proposition of mine, you shall gain far beyond your wildest imaginings."

Grey eyes narrowed conspicuously in wariness; the last time he had listened to such great promise, it turned out to be laced with the deadliest of poison. "It did not fare too well for Faust when he made the pact with Mephistopheles," Draco spoke coolly.

This statement made Grindelwald laugh with great mirth. "I see you are well versed with the legend. Very well, I shall impart upon you the two things I would like you to accomplish." And Grindelwald told Draco everything.

As Draco listened to those words flowing out of Grindelwald's mouth, he grew increasingly alarmed and confused. By the time Grindelwald finished, Draco could not utter one word, for a sense of apprehension was threatening to swallow him whole. With guarded eyes, Draco regarded this man before him; those uncanny hazel eyes were sparkling a gleam of eerie amber. Selling his soul to the devil might very well be what he was about to do, but it was a proposition he could no more refuse as to refuse his own nature.

A smile that was not entirely unkind lingered upon Grindelwald's lips, as though he could read the thoughts in Draco's turbulent mind. Holding out his hand to Draco in invitation, he addressed to Draco in a soothing voice that was as pleasant as it was eerie, "Young Draco Malfoy, will you allow me to play Mephistopheles to your Faust?"--

A harsh raven's cry rang out within the deserted corridor, as if reminding him of the oath he had taken. And Draco, with eyes lucid and detached, silently went on his way. One by one, the burning torches extinguished themselves at his wake, plunging the passages into the world of the night.

* * *

A knock on the door informed Dumbledore of his late visitor, and quickly he sealed away the stone Pensieve he had been poring over for some time, before replying aloud, "Come in."

And in came Draco Malfoy, with the easy grace of a leopard and a strange half-smile Dumbledore had seen countless times upon the face of another. "You wish to see me, professor?"

"Yes, there are certain matters I would like to discuss with you," Dumbledore said while looking thoughtfully at the celestial globe placed in the middle of the room. "Firstly, I cannot condone violent retaliation of any kind against a student, be it justified or otherwise, within Hogwarts."

Although Dumbledore offered no specifics about which particular incident he was referring to, his proclamation was clearly directed at Draco. It served little purpose to put up an act in front of the perceptive headmaster of Hogwarts, therefore Draco replied, "I understand, professor. I shall keep that in mind."

Dumbledore did not turn to look at him, but Draco could tell those deceptively kind eyes were appraising him in sidelong glances. "Very well. As for the second matter, I am sure you have read about all those recent murders by decapitation."

"Yes, I have," Draco said quietly, his eyes leisurely roaming about the chamber where portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses were soundly asleep, or appeared to be so; Fawkes the phoenix was nowhere in sight. "Such barbaric acts they were, completely unnecessary."

At that Dumbledore finally turned around to fully engage Draco's gaze, bright cerulean eyes belied hidden strength like a raging flame burning within; cold grey eyes met his without hesitation or fear. "You do realize Lord Voldemort has always held great interest in Augustus' work."

"Death has always held a certain morbid fascination in human beings since the dawn of time," Draco commented offhandedly, his head tilted slightly to one side in innocent query. "You do not believe I may be responsible for those murders?"

"No, Draco, I do not think you are responsible for those murders," Dumbledore spoke in emphasis.

To his bemusement, Draco heaved a soft sigh that was barely audible amidst the murmurs and snores coming from the portraits, his expression almost rueful. "You are placing too much trust in persons undeserving, professor."

A sudden smile graced upon Dumbledore's wrinkled face, a smile sincere yet sorrowful, and in a melancholic voice he spoke, "It is not something that can be measured with logic, Draco."

"True," Draco absentmindedly said. "Certainly emotions have nothing to do with rationality, just as how the matter of the mind and the matter of the heart can be mutually exclusive."

Then, like a predator prowling towards his prey, Draco rushed at Dumbledore, and with expert ease, drove the dagger he had concealed in his sleeve into Dumbledore's abdomen. A collective scream of dismay rang out from the portraits as they witnessed the violent scene unfolding before them. Yet Draco gave them no heed, as though the scream of horror was nothing more than a phantom's cry in a dark, stormy night. "Sometimes, one has to commit an act of evil in order to pursue the greater good."

Dumbledore staggered as pain began to set in and blood of alarming crimson began to stream out, staining his honeysuckle robe. Nevertheless the kind smile never left his face, as though it was the only expression he could conjure up. "Has it finally come to this, Draco?" he said softly as he grimaced at the pain and the dark spots flashing before his eyes.

"Yes, it has, professor," words escaped Draco's bloodless lips as he stared into Dumbledore's cloudy eyes, the hand that was not wielding the dagger was gently cradling the back of Dumbledore's head. "This is part of the bargain I made with Grindelwald. I'm sure you have seen this coming."

As though feeling tired of it all Dumbledore shut his eyes with a sigh, before opening them once more; weariness was closing in about him, and comprehension at last dawned in his hazy eyes. "Ah, so that is how it is."

With a serene smile resembling that of a merciful executioner, Draco pulled out the dagger in one fluid motion, which elicited a groan of agony from Dumbledore. Blood splashed out profusely, staining Dumbledore's robe and Draco's stark white shirt with striking crimson. Dumbledore fell to the unyielding floor in a bloody heap, his consciousness quickly fading away as darkness crept in to claim him as their own.

"I'm glad we finally understand each other, professor," Draco spoke in such calmness that frightened even the most seasoned headmasters and headmistresses, before he dropped the bloodstained blade onto the pool of red with a clatter. "Sweet dreams."

Candlelight wavered; shadows twisted to and fro like a living monster stretching their claws. Amidst furious shouts and frantic cries from the portraits, there was nothing but tranquility in Draco's mind as he pulled out a wand of hawthorn from the depth of his pocket. Casually he strode out of the chamber, and as the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office climbed back to its usual post, he cast an intricate net of spells upon the entrance before he quickly disappeared into the dark, twisting maze of Hogwarts castle.

_"Don't you find it ironic? That Death is the only angel who dutifully remains by the side of human beings from the very moment they were conceived, till the final moment when they let out their last breath."_

-- In another part of the castle, Harry was dreaming of the parted black veil, and hiding behind it was a man of indeterminable age with eyes of molten gold and a knowing smile graced upon ghostly pale lips.

* * *

_To be continued..._

1. A line from Oscar Wilde's play, _Salome: A Tragedy in One Act._

2. Dido's lament, an aria from Henry Purcell's opera, _Dido and Aeneas._

3. _Aqua Tofina _is the latin term for arsenious oxide; _Minium_ is the latin term for cinnabar. In ancient Daoism, cinnabar was actually used as medicine, some even claimed that it's the elixir of immortality. The potion that Draco mentions is, of course, invented by me.

4. Night-lily is invented by me. As for the bit about bones turning black when someone is poisoned, it's a common belief in ancient chinese culture.

A/N: My brand of cliff-hanger is evil, I know. And I apologize for taking so long to post this. The next part will not be ready for quite some time, therefore I sincerely ask for your patience.


	5. Part II

Disclaimer: The colourful world of Harry Potter and its characters are, unfortunately, not mine.

Warning: Dark themes, disturbing imagery, and violence

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part II: In the Room of Mirrors_

Rapid footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hallway, giving the impression of a horde of angry villagers giving chase to a suspected witch. A black school robe billowed while locks of curly brown flew wildly about: she was running in full haste within the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The scarlet-and-gold necktie about her neck identified her as belonging to the Gryffindor House; and the small pin on her collar stated her position as a prefect.

Hermione climbed the stairs with the anxious energy of a bird being hunted. Stumbling slightly on the last step, she quickly picked herself up, and sprinted towards the entrance of the Gryffindor tower. Hailing the password at the offended portrait guarding the tower, Hermione barged into the relatively deserted common-room.

It took some moment for Hermione to locate Harry, who was sitting by the fireplace with a distracted air about him. Ignoring the curious stares she had garnered, Hermione swiftly walked up to Harry. "Harry, come quickly! There's something you must see!"

Quizzically Harry raised his head to look at Hermione, who was clearly out of breath after her journey back to the Gryffindor tower. So unusual it was to see Hermione lost her composure that Harry knew immediately something was wrong.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he got onto his feet, his vigilance fully awakened from its uneasy slumber.

"Come with me." Hermione repeated in a tone clearly bespoke of genuine distress, and then she whipped her head around to where Ron had appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "You too, Ron. Hurry!" And with surprising strength for a dainty figure, she pulled Harry towards the entrance of the tower.

Harry needed no more persuasion, and exited the Gryffindor dormitory with Hermione, while Ron trailed behind them in confusion. They descended several flights of stairs and passed through numerous corridors, until they finally reached the ground floor. With very little hesitation Hermione led them through a series of twists and turns; and soon Harry found that they had entered a section of the castle he had never been to before.

Walls bare and unadorned, there was an aura of desolation and neglect about this place. The various portraits, statues, and suits of armour that had typically dominated a better part of the Hogwarts castle were completely absent in this place. Stone floor was covered by a thin layer of fine dust that had been recently disturbed, while the ceiling was decorated with silky cobwebs.

At the end of a long, lonely corridor was a set of ornate double doors thrown wide open on both sides. And before the doorway was gathered a small crowd of students, who were whispering apprehensively among themselves.

A whiff of metallic scent hung in the musty air, a scent that tingled Harry's senses and aroused in him a feeling of foreboding. Suddenly overcome by an indescribable sense of urgency, Harry broke through the crowd, and arrived at a most disturbing sight he had ever beheld.

Streaks of crimson were drawn across pale walls, and pools of burgundy were spilled on the grimy floor. Discarded upon the ground was a pure white mask, its surface stained with droplets of scarlet, like small flowers blooming upon a snowy hill. In his mind's eye, he could see scattered black robes, red-coloured neck, and vacant, lifeless eyes. And then, he saw him, a figure cloaked completely in black, his hair fair and his eyes held a golden glint in their depth.

"Everyone, return to your dormitory now." Reverberating in the echoing corridor was the imposing voice of the Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. Like a knife her voice cut through Harry's subconscious, interrupting the flow of the imaginary play being unfolded in his mind.

Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he blinked at Hermione and Ron, both of whom were white as a sheet. Once again turning his gaze towards the ghastly scene on the other side of the threshold, he found that he could see the black-robed figures no more. The overpowering scent of blood made him feel sick to the stomach; and yet, Harry felt a vague sense of nostalgia all the same.

"Come on, let's go," Hermione whispered to Harry as she watched the other students quickly dispersed, no doubt trying to escape the wrath of the strict Transfiguration professor.

After one last glance at the mask lying silently on the floor, Harry turned around and retraced the path back to the Gryffindor tower with Ron and Hermione by his side. All around them, the news of the discovery was spreading among the student body like wild fire, but so preoccupied was Harry that he noticed very little of it. When at last the trio stepped into the haven that was the Gryffindor tower, commotion had already broken out among the Gryffindors. Wanting to get away from the noisy disturbance around him, Harry escaped into his cosy dorm-room.

Heavily Harry sat on his bed, his mind still reeling from the troubling sight he had seen. The mattress depressed slightly as Hermione sat beside him, her face laden with worries. Ron unceremoniously flopped onto his own bed, attempting to mask his concern and discomfort, and failing miserably.

Feeling as though he should say something, Harry began after taking several deep breaths, "Which section of the castle is that? I've never been to there before."

"According to the direction it's at, I would have to say that's the South Wing," Hermione replied while needlessly smoothing a crease on the bedspread. "But it's odd. I thought there were only three wings on the ground floor."

It was futile to delay the inevitable that would have to pass. Therefore, Harry spoke again, though not without a hint of trepidation, "The mask looks like a Death Eater mask."

"Yes, it does." There was a slight tremor in Hermione's voice, but upon her face was a look of determination that Harry had come to recognize on several occasions. "And the red liquid is most likely blood."

"If it's some kind of a sick joke, it's in really bad taste," Ron spoke with a shiver, his grudge against Harry temporarily lay aside.

"Even if it's a joke, where did the blood come from?" Hermione reasoned as she interchanged a disquieting glance between Harry and Ron, neither of whom could provide an answer. "Besides, I don't think someone would go so far just for fun."

"Who knows? The Slytherins aren't exactly normal." Ron threw a furtive glance at Harry, but Harry did not meet it, for a frightening possibility had emerged from the deep recess of his mind. "I bet they find the whole thing very funny."

"The Slytherins wouldn't dare pull a stunt like that," Harry said while distractedly rubbing his forehead; his instinct was telling him this was most certainly not a mere schoolboy prank. "They have enough sense to know that throwing in a Death Eater mask wouldn't sit well with Voldemort."

"A message then?" Hermione pointed out as she unsuccessfully swept her long mane over her shoulder. "It could be a warning of some sort."

"Warning us or warning them?" Ron remarked plainly, his face twisted into a grimace. "I don't know about you, but if this is really a message, whoever did it would be better off just writing out what they want in capital letters. I mean, a mask and lots of blood? Who the hell's going to understand what that means?"

"I suppose so." Hermione cradled her chin in her palm, seemingly deep in thought. "It's too ambiguous. The interpretation can go many different ways. Then again..."

Fleetingly Harry felt an uneasy tug in his chest, for he could discern what was running through Hermione's mind. "You are not thinking it has something to do with the Guillotine, are you?" He could hear Ron shifting uncomfortably on his bed, but Harry ignored him for the moment.

"I don't know." Hermione shook her head in dismay. "It fits into what we've been talking about: that the series of death by beheading is a way to attract the attention of a certain individual. If that's the case, the blood and the mask could be a response from the person to whom the initial message was intended for."

Harry understood why Hermione was troubled. For some time, they had suspected Draco Malfoy's possible connection to the decapitation of both Muggles and wizards alike over the course of the past two months. If Hermione's reasoning was correct, the primary suspect of the puzzling incident in the South Wing would most likely be Draco. Nevertheless, if Draco was the one who sent out the reply by way of this dramatic display, who was the initiator of the correspondence?

Replaying in his mind his meeting with Draco on the spiral staircase last night, Harry found himself stricken by a renewed sense of ill omen. Although it was nothing more than a lurking suspicion, he felt there was a far more malevolent implication behind the incomprehensible imagery of red and white.

Leaning against the headboard, Harry unconsciously fiddled with the thin silver chain around his neck. Like a manifestation of his morose brooding, the jade amulet dangling before his chest seemed to grow slightly heavier than usual. Unbeknownst to Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged a discreet look, Hermione silent and Ron sullen.

"Is it..." Harry faltered for a brief moment, for he suddenly felt very, very cold, as though the winter spell had befallen the room. "The blood and all that. Is it possible that someone might've been killed there?"

Ron and Hermione shuddered collectively at Harry's words. The same idea had crossed both their minds, but neither of them had wished to voice it; for speaking aloud such dark thought would only make such a possibility seemed frighteningly likely.

"Well, there's the mask. So maybe it's just a Death Eater?" Ron was the first to suggest.

"Since they didn't find a body, there's no way to tell who the victim was -- if there's a victim," Hermione spoke in a small voice, her face once more paled. "If the Death Eaters are involved somehow, it means they've found a way to enter Hogwarts castle undetected. For all we know, they might come back again, or worse, they might still be somewhere inside the castle."

At that moment, the magnified voice they recognized as belonging to the Head of Gryffindor House echoed throughout the castle. "All students, please return to the dormitory immediately until further notice. Repeat, all students are to return to their dormitories immediately." Once the announcement ceased, an uproar of noises from the common-room crept into the stiflingly silent dorm-room through the oak door.

"We'll leave the search to the teachers then," Hermione spoke with a note of finality, although she did not seem at all reassured. "There isn't much we could do right now."

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Harry looked out the window to where the purest of white was descending from the equally pale sky above, its pallid hue liken to a mourning shroud enveloping a corpse in final respect. The disquieting storm that had been silently brewing for days had unleashed its fury upon the land of fragile tranquillity at last.

* * *

Many floors below the Gryffindor tower, in the underground where neither the sun nor the moon could reach, Draco was woken by a series of loud raps upon the door of his room. As though he had not fallen asleep at all, he immediately sprang up from his bed with his wand drawn. As soon as he moved, however, a sharp pain from his left shoulder instantly shot through his body, causing him to hiss aloud and collapse onto the bed.

"Draco? Are you awake yet?" The lazy voice of Blaise Zabini seeped through the door. "Snape has a message for you. And it looks like something big is going on right now."

Inhaling deeply to ease away his tension, Draco put down his wand, and took a moment to regain his composure. When he felt he was prepared, he quickly moved to the door, and opened it. "Yes?"

Casually standing before the door was Blaise, who had adopted his usual facade of boredom, but he could not hide the agitation in his demeanour nor the excitable gleam in his eyes. "Here," Blaise handed a piece of parchment to Draco, which Draco took without a word. "And I believe the announcement will be made soon."

As if answering to Blaise's cue, McGonagall's magnified voice rang through the castle. "All students, please return to the dormitory immediately until further notice. Repeat, all students are to return to the dormitory immediately."

With scrutinizing eyes Draco regarded Blaise, whose nonchalant stance was marred by a hint of discomfort. As though being silently prompted by Draco, Blaise elaborated. "Apparently they found blood in some abandoned corridor no one ever goes to, along with a white mask."

The only visible sign of acknowledgement from Draco was a narrowing of his shrewd grey eyes; he did not ask what kind of mask it was, for he already knew. "Is that all?"

"Yeah," Blaise said while shifting his footing restlessly, acting quite unlike his usual languid self. "Caused quite a stir too. But who knows? Maybe it's just some idiots playing a nasty prank."

"Perhaps," Draco remarked distantly, seemingly unbothered by the unsettling news. "People tend to do foolish things when they are bored."

When Blaise went on his way at last, Draco quietly closed the door. Without delay he read the note from Snape, before igniting it with a casual wave of his hand. Within seconds the note was entirely consumed by fire, leaving behind black embers that quickly vanished into nothingness. Having destroyed the note, Draco picked up his wand from the bed, and strolled unhurriedly into the bathroom.

The lamp hanging from the ceiling illuminated itself as soon as Draco stepped into the bathroom, its gentle glow shining over the ivory-coloured basin and the brass-framed mirror. Carefully Draco unbuttoned his black shirt, and with a hint of a wince lingering about his brows, he took off the left sleeve. Securely wound around his left shoulder was a set of white bandages, which was stained by a blot of red. Sighing wearily, he severed the bandage with a spell, and gingerly pried away the spoiled bandage, revealing a long, bleeding gash that ran diagonally across his shoulder. Had the curse been allowed to take its course, he would have lost his left arm.

Pointing his wand at the wound, he muttered a spell to stop the bleeding, before applying some _Essence of Dittany _to the wound. Biting hard on his lips, he bore the pain as best as he could. When he was at last finished, he exhaled in relief, and conjured new bandages around his shoulder.

Healing magic had not been his strong point in the past, but it appeared he had picked up a trick or two from Sirius Black, who possessed the knowledge from his days as an active member of the Order of the Phoenix. Then again, Draco had inherited more than spells and knowledge from the departed, had he not?

After cleaning up the basin with a simple wave of his wand, Draco found his gaze inevitably fell upon the reflection in the mirror. On the other side of the mirror, a boy was looking pensively at him, a boy who looked like a mere stranger to Draco's eyes. Driven by the same morbid impulse that had haunted him for some time, he stared at the vertical scar on his chest where his heart resided within. With frightening vividness he could recall the sensation of a cold blade pressed into his heart, and the sluggish sound of metal piercing into flesh.

And then, he saw before him every minutely detail of the night of carnage where everything was tainted by a splash of red, a lavish banquet for the dead who refused to rest.

_No_, he vigorously shook away the disturbing memories that were stealthily breaking free from the bindings he had placed upon them. It would not do for him to dwell on what had already been done; for he could not afford to display even the slightest sign of weakness in this vicious game of chess, where the ultimate defeat meant a fate worse than death.

When he put on his shirt and straightened his posture, he was no longer the ignorant boy of sixteen who had been living in an oblivious half-dream, but one who knew perfectly well he was walking on a very fine line between light and darkness.

* * *

Thick velvet drapes were thrown wide open, allowing the snow-tinted morning light to enter into the chamber. One of the walls was dominated by a finely sculpted stone fireplace, and before the fireplace were two velvet-lined armchairs, between which was a mahogany pedestal table. Directly opposite the fireplace stood several tall bookshelves filled with books both ancient and new, their subjects as varying as the weather.

And yet, to the various visitors who had been invited into the living quarters of the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first thing that attracted their gaze as they first stepped into the chamber would always be the piano sitting quietly by the corner, waiting to be played. Although the wooden surface had lost some of its lustre over the years, the well-preserved condition in which the piano was in spoke of loving care from its owner.

Contemplating the piano absently while pacing to and fro was Madam Pomfrey, the school matron. Never had she known the headmaster could play piano; she suspected there were only a handful of people who had ever truly known the wizard beneath the cloak of brilliance and flamboyance.

With a soft creak, the main door slid open on its own, which immediately drove Pomfrey out of her inner musing. Like a seasoned duellist Pomfrey swiftly drew her wand, and placed herself before the corridor that would lead into the bed chamber. When she saw McGonagall striding briskly into the room, however, Pomfrey breathed a sigh of relief, and put her wand away.

No words of reprimand came from McGonagall, for she knew well precaution was warranted for in light of this unsettling chain of events. "How is he?" McGonagall asked at once as she gestured at the direction of the bedroom.

"It will take some time before the poison in his bloodstream can be completely driven out," Pomfrey replied in her usual direct, callous manner. "I have to cast a temporary revival charm on him, since I can't give him the blood-replenishing potion until the poison leaves his system. Still, he's lucky the dagger didn't hit any of his major organs. And the poison on the dagger happens to be _Sanguis Venenum_, a slow-acting poison. A nightmare to get rid of, but treatable if the person was found in time."

"Is it really luck, I wonder?" McGonagall muttered to herself, but Pomfrey did not hear it.

"I've heard the announcement just now. Have you found something pertaining to the attack?" Pomfrey inquired with an anxious air about her, for the assassination attempt on Albus Dumbledore's life could not be taken lightly.

A sliver of uncertainty loomed over McGonagall; no more could she explain to Pomfrey than could she comprehend the unthinkable scene within the desolate South Wing. And yet, divulge it she must. "Not entirely. We've found blood splattered all over the walls and the floor of the South Wing corridor."

"South Wing?" Pomfrey raised her eyebrows in bemusement, for it was not the news she had been expecting. "I almost forgot there's a South Wing at Hogwarts. Was that where Dumbledore was initially attacked?"

As though her mind was in the midst of a turmoil, McGonagall strolled towards the arched windows to grant herself some time to collect her thoughts. Beyond the glass, the blizzard that had befallen the mountains was swiftly turning the earth into a frozen grave of vast whiteness.

"I doubt it," McGonagall said as she watched powdery snow swirling wildly to the tune of the violent wind. "The South Wing has been deserted for a long time. If Dumbledore was attacked in the South Wing, the assailant could have left him there, instead of carrying him all the way back to the headmaster's office while trying to elude detection at the same time."

Affected by the sombreness in McGonagall's voice, the expression upon Pomfrey's face became grave. "Was someone else hurt then?"

"There's no one about when we arrived at the scene." Subtle though McGonagall's words were, Pomfrey caught the implication therein: neither the living nor the dead was found. Even though it was merely a thought, it sent a chill to her heart. "Aside from the blood, the only other thing we've found was a white mask. It looks remarkably similar to the ones the Death Eaters typically wear."

Pomfrey gasped in surprise, her hand automatically flew to her mouth; the only plausible explanation for such a discovery was too ghastly to contemplate. "Did the Death Eaters manage to breach the security surrounding Hogwarts castle? Were they the ones who attacked the headmaster?"

"I don't know, Poppy," McGonagall answered grimly as she whirled around to regard her colleague. "We've already searched the castle, but we came up with nothing. Other than the mask, there are no other indications of Death Eaters' presence at Hogwarts. Nevertheless, it is better for us to assume the worst case scenario."

"Two incidents in one night. Something is definitely moving in the shadow without our knowledge." Pomfrey resumed her agitated pacing once more. "Other than those horrific beheadings, the other side has been rather quiet lately. Maybe this is what they have been planning all along."

"If that is the case, someone has thwarted their plan -- at least where the headmaster is concerned," McGonagall responded with marked calmness, even though there was a steely edge in her speech. "Last night, someone alerted me of Albus' condition by way of a Patronus. That was how we managed to get to Albus so quickly -- even with the series of sealing spells cast on the gargoyle to hinder our entry."

"Then the Patronus itself could be a clue as to who this mystery person is," Pomfrey remarked hopefully, and ceased her mindless movement. "Perhaps this person will be of help to us."

To her bewilderment, however, McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line, and her intelligent brown eyes were doggedly fixated upon the piano by the corner. Slowly McGonagall spoke, with a hint of what could only be described as grim indignation, "I wonder about that. While I could not recognize the voice, the shape of the Patronus certainly looks like that of a raven."

* * *

Forbidden looking still was Snape's office in the dungeons, where darkness and shadows remained constant companions since the dawn of time. Candlelight danced brilliantly amidst the dreary decor, casting shadows upon Draco's visage that looked eerily akin to a white, inhuman mask.

And Snape, sitting behind his neatly organized desk, studied his prized pupil keenly with those astute eyes of his. Not once had he cast his eyes upon the scarred desktop where a blood-stained dagger of simple design was ceremoniously laid upon a black cloth, like a sacred offering to be presented to the gods.

With a nod Snape indicated the dagger on the desk, and asked in a voice of imposing quietude, "Would you like to offer an explanation for this, Mr Malfoy?"

Reflective grey eyes were gazing at Snape in calculating rumination for several heartbeats. "I have nothing to say, professor," Draco replied at last, his tone soft yet possessed a note of unshakeable resolve.

"This is quite a gamble you are indulging in," Snape spoke again, undeterred by Draco's steadfast dismissal of his query. "Although the portraits in the headmaster's office refused to reveal anything concerning the attack thus far, the Patronus being sent to McGonagall will undoubtedly raise questions."

"It can hardly be called a gamble if you know beforehand you will win," Draco said calmly as he turned to examine one of the glass jars with faint interest.

One dark eyebrow arched at Draco's cryptic statement. "Have you already anticipated Dumbledore would do all he could to conceal the identity of his," Snape paused in emphasis, "attacker?"

For some time Draco spoke no reply, but merely continued his exploration around the chamber, projecting the perfect image of an eager student in curious wonder. "Professor, do you know how to slay a serpent?" Draco suddenly asked.

"By cutting off its head," Snape replied smoothly, his black, unfathomable eyes narrowed ever so inconspicuously. "To declare war against the Dark Lord at this stage of the game is too reckless a move to play."

"Ah, but you see, this is not a declaration of war." Tilting his head to the side, Draco sent a sidelong glance at Snape, an appraising glance that reminded Snape unnervingly of a surgeon's scalpel. Nevertheless, the words that rolled out of Draco's mouth lost none of their characteristic suavity. "It is a pity that this is all I can say. After all, considering your current position, it is in your best interest to know as little as possible."

"Indeed," Snape whispered as he beheld the dagger dyed in red, the very symbol of betrayal. "May I assume Mr Nott and the others have been dealt with respectively?"

A silent reply was all Draco would afford Snape, yet Snape had gotten his answer. There shall be serious repercussion once the Dark Lord learnt of the rebellion. While Snape played but a small role in this dramatic play of deception and secrecy orchestrated by the boy standing before him, he could no more escape the responsibility of the failed mission as the one who had directly foiled the Dark Lord's plot.

Long ago Snape had known the price he must pay for his defiance against the Dark Lord. And it appeared the moment for him to at last lay down his life might be fast approaching. Nonetheless, the foreknowledge of his impending doom granted him a certain sense of relief and solace.

"Undoubtedly you will find a way to defuse the situation, as you always have." No longer was Draco looking at the grotesque specimen floating in green fluid; he was observing Snape with such shrewdness as belonging to no boy of his age. "It is not yet time for you to bow out of this game."

Was that the reason why he was spared, the reason for the _Sanguis Venenum_ on the dagger? Snape pondered to himself as he met those mercurial eyes of Draco's. Those were the eyes of one who would utilize whatever means at his disposal to attain his wishes, eyes that looked remarkably like those of his sires'. Such ruthless arrogance that he could not help but admire, albeit with a note of wariness and reservation.

A sudden flash of enlightenment struck Snape as he observed this strangely omniscient young man before him. The sole heir of Lucius Malfoy might very well be the key to end the war, the decades-long chess game between the light and the dark that was fast becoming a chaotic duel of three.

* * *

After the disturbance in the morning hour, classes were officially cancelled for the day. Students were allowed to leave their dormitory, but they were forbidden from venturing into the South Wing which, only a day ago, was nothing more than a forsaken land forgotten by all but a few.

Whispers of unrest and apprehension punctured the fragile facade of peace as students huddled closely among themselves, exchanging rumours and suspicion. One could not walk around the corridors of Hogwarts castle without seeing students young and old looking nervously this way and that, fearful of the unknown that might well be lurking in dark corners and shadowy corridors.

Once more the golden Great Hall was abuzz with various speculations and gossips, be they true or otherwise. Nevertheless, the topic that was flitting in everyone's mind at the moment was the mysterious circumstances surrounding the elusive South Wing, while the heated subject from yesterday lay completely forgotten. Such was the only consolation Harry was granted from this singularly incomprehensible affair.

Like a foolish moth drawn to the dangerous flame, his eyes of evergreen swept across the Great Hall to where the Slytherins were seated. The familiar faces of those from his year he looked past, yet the quietly commanding presence of Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found.

A tingling upon his neck called to his mind once more the unsettling scene that took place upon the spiral staircase, and for reasons that eluded him, Harry felt a strange fluttering sensation in his abdomen that he could not explain. Too well could he recall how those cold lips of Draco's grazed softly against his skin, he wondered with a peculiar pang if it might not have been part of the vision after all.

Mentally shaking himself out of his straying reverie, Harry took another half-hearted bite of his roasted ham, even though he had little appetite. The copper-like scent of blood lingered still in his mind, yet it brought him an inexplicable feeling of deja vu.

The macabre display in the South Wing appeared to have little effect on Ron's appetite, for Ron was helping himself to another serving. Hermione, on the other hand, touched very little of her meal as she seemed to be lost in thought.

As though unable to maintain her silence anymore, Hermione spoke aloud, though more to herself than to anyone else, "If it's a message, where did the culprit get all the blood from? Not from a small animal, I reckon. A large animal from the forest maybe? If it's the aftermath of a vicious attack, who's the victim? How many victims were there? Where did they all go? If they were indeed murdered, why did the murderer only hide the bodies but not clean up the scene?"

"If there's a large animal missing in the forest, Hagrid would've noticed," Harry responded to Hermione's query, hoping the mental exercise could clear his head. "And if someone inside Hogwarts was being attacked, we would've known who it was by now. Someone would've noticed if a classmate or a teacher has gone missing."

"Well, Dumbledore isn't here," Ron spoke up abruptly while pointing his knife at the head table. "Didn't see Snape or Pomfrey either."

"I saw Snape awhile ago, and he looked every bit his normal self," Hermione commented before a look of faint distress flashed across her face. "But I haven't seen Dumbledore or Pomfrey all day."

"Pomfrey is probably in the hospital wing, right?" Harry suggested, even as a sense of unspeakable unease took hold of him. "And maybe Dumbledore is busy looking into what happened." As those words left Harry's mouth, he had a most unusual feeling that there was something about Dumbledore he had forgotten. And yet, he could not seem to recall what it was.

"I suppose so." The uncertainty in Hermione's voice did not lend any convincing weight to her own statement. With a sigh, she took a sip of water from her goblet.

"What about the Death Eater mask then?" Ron inquired blatantly as he waved his knife around like a conductor wielding a baton. "What if the Death Eaters were really here? Maybe Pettigrew told them where the secret tunnels are, and that's how they got in."

Harry's clear green eyes darkened ever so slightly at the name of the traitor who betrayed his parents. Willing himself to steer away from dangerous water, Harry said as calmly as he could manage, "But Lupin knows about the secret passages in and out of Hogwarts as well. I'm pretty sure the Order has it covered already." With a sad pang, Harry was reminded of how Sirius and his father James had known of the hidden passages within Hogwarts as well.

"What if there were areas within Hogwarts that even Professor Lupin did not know about?" Hermione argued, all the while giving Harry a sympathetic glance, as though she could guess what was on Harry's mind.

"Lupin was one of the Marauders, remember?" Ron interjected with a hint of indignation. "If there's anyone who knows all about Hogwarts, it would have to be the Marauders. And I guess we can count Fred and George too, since they had the Marauder's Map when they were here."

"That still doesn't prove my theory is wrong," Hermione pointed out while firmly setting her goblet onto the table. "I'll admit that they probably know the layout of Hogwarts the best. But that doesn't mean they know _everything_ about Hogwarts."

An unexpected insight flashed within Harry's mind at Hermione's comment. "You know, I don't remember there being a South Wing at Hogwarts before. At least, not until you dragged me there this morning."

"I've been wondering about that myself, since I couldn't recall that section of Hogwarts ever existed," Hermione replied with a bemused frown upon her brows as she tried to remember the floor plan of Hogwarts. "I've been to that corridor countless times, but I don't think I've ever seen that set of double doors before. And I've checked in _Hogwarts, a History._ The South Wing was not mentioned anywhere in the book."

In unison Harry and Hermione turned to Ron, who only gave them a shrug. "Same here. Didn't know there's a South Wing in the first place."

The trio fell into contemplative silence as each of them pondered about the implication behind this surprising discovery. It was when the table was clear and the dessert was served that Ron at last broke the silence. "Well, I guess that might be where the Death Eaters got in and out."

"Assuming whoever was involved in this was indeed a Death Eater," Hermione pointed out while helping herself to a cup of hot tea. "Besides, unless we can find a secret tunnel or something similar in the South Wing, we cannot say for certain that was where the intruders had gotten in."

_Did someone really break into Hogwarts last night?_ Harry could not help but wonder as he passed the bowl of sugar to Hermione. Since the students were allowed to leave their dormitories, he assumed that the search conducted by the teachers did not yield any result. If someone had indeed infiltrated the castle last night, the intruder had left already, although in what state did the intruder make his departure Harry could not say.

"Aren't you forgeting something?" Ron spoke without a second thought. "Wouldn't it be better if we figure out who did all this and what for first?"

Harry's heart skipped a nervous beat at Ron's offhanded statement; for the unpleasant feeling of suspicion and dread once more resurfaced to the forefront of Harry's mind. While Harry could not tell if Draco was indeed the mastermind behind what happened or not, he had an uncanny feeling that Draco at least had a hand in creating this riddle. If Harry were to allow this discussion between him and his friends to go any further, Harry knew the topic of Draco Malfoy would inevitably come up at some point; and he had the most overwhelming urge to steer the discussion away from Draco.

Nevertheless, before he could say anything, Hermione had already spoken in her usual tone of reason, though Harry caught a brief glance from Hermione, a glance that conveyed a hidden message to Harry. "It's too early to make any conclusions about that until we know the nature of the said _crime_. We aren't even sure if someone is really killed or not."

The elaborate scene in the deserted South Wing appeared once more in Harry's mind; Harry rather thought it was a scene better suited for the theatricals. With a mental shiver, Harry found that it required very little effort on his part to imagine the display being arranged by the unpredictable Augustus Grindelwald, who seemed to possess a flair for the dramatic.

This train of thought led him unavoidably to Draco, who had entered into a Pact with Grindelwald, the terms of which none save the two of them knew of. As the dull throbbing that was lurking in his head gradually increased in volume, Harry mused with a vague sense of disquietude if this troubling string of events was the price Draco must pay for taking the hand of the dead.

* * *

Chilly and damp was the dungeons, its labyrinthine paths like the entrails of a monstrous being whose ravenous hunger could never be quenched. As the flaming torches hung on the iron racks flickered, the walls seemed to be rippling in a rhythmic sequence of expansion and contraction.

Prowling alone in the winding corridors, Draco was lost in his thought. The first act of the play was completed, and the curtain for the second act shall rise when the other party made its move. Patience was all he could rely upon right now, even though time for him was fading fast.

His rumination was interrupted when a series of melodious trills reached his ear, a voice of such preternatural splendour that it transcended any music ever created on earth. The sound sent a trickling quiver down Draco's spine, yet it was with neither fear nor awe that Draco awaited the arrival of his visitor.

Coming to a halt in the middle of the corridor, Draco watched coolly as a burst of golden flame appeared before him, and calmly he reached out his right arm. The flame materialized into a magnificent bird of scarlet and gold, and the bird, as though fully expecting the greeting from Draco, perched itself onto Draco's forearm.

"I owe you a gratitude for allowing me to harm your master as was necessary, Fawkes," Draco spoke placidly to Fawkes the Phoenix as he offered Fawkes a respectful nod, "but it was not yet time for him to wake up."

No words could Fawkes utter, but his dark, unreadable eyes were fixed upon Draco's left shoulder. The keen observation from the firebird elicited a dry chuckle from Draco. "You have noticed? But I know you will not shed a tear for me, not even when I am at death's door."

Draco stroked Fawkes' feathers lightly, and Fawkes let him. Those velvet feathers were pulsing with warmth beneath Draco's fingers, as though each feather possessed a life of its own. And yet, Draco knew such warmth could no longer be his to capture.

Ashen grey eyes deepened into profound hazel as Draco mused aloud, "After all, your master will eventually die by my hands, unless Death itself catches up with one of us first."

Suddenly Fawkes spread his wings and took flight into the air; simultaneously Draco saw the lean figure of Harry Potter coming around the corner. As his alarm gave way to a surge of raging temper, Draco sent a sharp, angry glance at the spot where Fawkes had vanished into.

And yet, he was not given time to contemplate about the deliberate act of the phoenix, for Harry was coming ever closer to where he stood. At once, Draco sensed the turbulence of doubt and confusion in Harry, as well as an undercurrent of some other emotion that Draco could not identify. Quickly Draco assessed in his mind how much Harry might have overheard. Nevertheless, a certain tell-tale sign in Harry's normally agile movement had robbed him of his concentration.

Propelled by an invisible force, Draco stepped forward to meet Harry, before raising his hand to Harry's forehead, and said, "Don't move."

Being surprised by Draco's sudden movement, Harry reflexively recoiled from Draco. As grey eyes narrowed a barely perceptible fraction in annoyance, Draco grabbed Harry's cheeks with both hands. The move, however, turned out to be a folly on Draco's part, for the pain that had subsided some time ago was reignited once more.

Try though Draco did to suppress his overt reaction to the pain, Harry somehow detected a hint of a grimace on Draco's brow. Determined though Harry had been to seek out Draco and question him about the circumstances that had occurred last night, when he caught the unusual pallor on Draco's face, the resolve in Harry began to falter.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked as he stared into Draco's stormy eyes, his voice conveying far more emotions than he dared to admit.

"I'm fine, but you shouldn't have come here," Draco replied as impassively at he could, and without further ado, he caught Harry's arm and led him away.

The first instinct in Harry was to shake off Draco's hand, but the impulse to rebel was extinguished like a burnt-out candle as he followed Draco into the twisting passages that made up the Hogwarts dungeons. Travelling in this ominous underground maze where the only light to be had was the orange firelight swaying to the slightest movement in the air, the hand that was firmly guiding him along reassured him and eased away some of his misgiving.

When at last Draco led Harry into a deserted potions classroom and released him, Harry found himself feeling a vague sense of loss, before it was overtaken by a shadow of wariness. As though noticing Harry's heightened guardedness towards him, Draco moved away from Harry, and leant against the edge of one of the tables.

"How's the headache?" Draco inquired with an absent air about him, his right hand lightly holding his left arm of its own accord.

Only with Draco's reminder did Harry realize the dull pain in his head had silently departed. "It's gone now, thanks," Harry said awkwardly. Pausing for a moment to recollect himself, Harry allowed his gaze to linger upon the arm Draco was holding. "How's your arm?"

Perhaps it was merely a trick of the lamplight scattered about the room, but Harry thought he saw a peculiar gleam in those unfathomable eyes of Draco's. "It'll be fine in a few days."

Harry was not prepared for the surprisingly candid response from Draco, for he thought Draco would elude his questioning as he always had. Blinking his forest green eyes at Draco, Harry decided it was best that he left the matter at that. "How did you do that? Make the headache go away, I mean." Harry spoke while tapping his forehead once.

"It's just a simple soothing spell," Draco answered as he gazed into a distance, his cloudy grey eyes staring at something Harry could not see. "Every pureblood family has its own unique variation. For instance, the Blacks have their short chant, while we the Malfoys only require a touch to channel the magic. I suppose the Potters have one of their own as well, though I don't know what theirs is like." There was a touch of wistfulness in Draco's otherwise dispassionate voice that Harry could not help but notice.

Rarely had Draco volunteered information to him, and Harry found himself puzzled by such deviation from the norm. Was the pain Draco was afflicted with so intense that he could barely keep up his usual facade of cool composure? Or was it the mysterious exchange between Draco and Fawkes that bothered Draco thus?

Although Harry was unable to hear well what was being said, he was certain it had something to do with Dumbledore. As the thought of the genial headmaster crossed Harry's mind, something was stirring in him once more like a fire being stoked, even though for the like of him he had yet to fathom out precisely what it was about.

Setting aside his own bemusement for the time being, he forced his mind to return to the task he had set out to do in the first place. "Did you have anything to do with what happened in the South Wing?"

Eyes of mercurial silver turned ever so slowly towards him, until they met Harry's crystalline green. Draco's gaze reminded Harry disturbingly of a scientist analysing a specimen under the microscope, yet Harry refused to relent. "Ever inquisitive, aren't we?" Draco spoke in that deceptively mellow voice of his. "Your overflowing curiosity will be the death of you some day."

At Draco's words, the irritation that was lurking within Harry grew ever more apparent. "Why don't you just answer the damn question?"

As though he was being asked a mere trivial matter, Draco studied him with condescending eyes, yet Harry had an unsettling feeling that Draco was prying into his mind. "Do you honestly want to know? What would you do if I tell you I'm responsible for everything? What if I tell you I've already killed someone?"

Speechless was Harry as he stared at Draco, unable to believe those words that came out of Draco's mouth. Waves of doubt washed over him, crushing him beneath their weight; he could no longer tell whether Draco was confessing to his own guilt or patronizing Harry for his effort.

As he desperately searched for words in the dark, Harry found his gaze irrevocably drawn to that pale neck of Draco's, his skin nearly transparent beneath the smooth black shirt. An intense impulse was urging Harry to act, to succumb to the siren's beckoning. Forgotten was his conversation with Draco, forgotten was the riddle surrounding the South Wing; the only thing that existed before him was the pale, slender throat waiting to be touched.

As everything else began to fuse into an inconsequential mass, he surrendered himself to his instinct. In several strides he narrowed the distance between him and Draco, and like a man possessed he reached for Draco's neck in slow motion.

Draco's skin was surprisingly warm, and the pulse beneath his fingers was calm and steady. It fascinated him to think how relatively easy it was for him to make the pulse quicken, or to make it stop altogether.

A cold hand had closed around his wrist, and with a sudden jolt, Harry was violently pulled out of his trance. Blinking several times in confusion, he found his hand gripping Draco's neck, while Draco's hand had seized his wrist. A sense of disorientation loomed over Harry like a dark cloud; he felt as though he was once more falling from the spiral staircase into the dark, bottomless abyss below. Hastily he pulled his hand away as if stung, alarmed by his inability to recall how he had come to lay his hand on Draco's neck.

Intently Draco gazed at him, as though he was examining something in Harry that Harry had not known existed. Beholding those impenetrable grey eyes of Draco's that were like smoky mirrors, the panic in Harry gradually faded into the background, until it became nothing more than a faint whimper. Fleetingly Harry could feel a comforting chill radiating from the bird-shaped pendant before his chest.

Softly and distantly, Draco spoke as though a voice from some hazy memories was guiding his speech, "The truth can be a bestial thing." And then, the fog was lifted, and there before Harry was once more the Draco Malfoy who proclaimed Harry as being partly to blame for his plight. "You should go now, lest your friends are looking for you."

The abrupt change of subject made Harry pause for a moment, before he was overcome by a sense of grim realization. "I suppose the answer is _yes_ then," Harry said forcefully, even as dread brushed its invisible fingers upon his mind. "And I have a feeling you aren't going to tell me who it was you've killed."

Draco's silence was as much an admission as any. Agitated by Draco's inaction, Harry stepped away from Draco, and stalked to the closed door. Yet, as his hand rested upon the doorknob, one remaining question lurked in his mind still. Without turning around, Harry asked, "How do you always know when I'm having a vision or a headache?"

A wisp of indescribable emotion appeared briefly upon Draco's face, but Harry did not see it. "I just do," Draco replied quietly after a momentary pause.

Yet another cryptic answer though it may be, it filled Harry with a rush of conflicting emotions that were warring among themselves. Biting on his lips once, he opened the door, and departed without another word.

Left alone in the empty classroom at last, Draco let out a heavy breath, and tested his left arm tentatively. The pain had lessened somewhat; nevertheless, however excruciating the physical pain may be, it was nothing compared to the agony of having one's soul torn apart. As if reminding him of the past he would rather forget, the scar upon his chest was burning once more.

Clutching the edge of the desk tightly, he propelled himself to stand tall, like what his grandfather would have done. He could not afford to break down now, for the summon shall be arriving soon. Too much effort he had poured into his plan for it to fail because of one little mistake on his part.

Pools of liquid mercury froze into reflective silver as he schooled his expression into one of quiet indifference. Drawing in a deep breath, Draco decisively strolled out of the chamber, never once looking back.

* * *

_To be continued..._

A/N: An early Happy Winter Solstice and Merry Christmas to all! Sorry for the exceptionally long wait. Part II will be split into three sections like Part I, and this is the first segment. Anyway, the mentions of the Death Eaters and the last scene in this chapter have long been anticipated by me, so I hope you like it. Thank you very much for reading and reviewing!


	6. Part II Contd

Disclaimer: The colourful world of Harry Potter and its characters are, unfortunately, not mine.

Warning: Dark themes, disturbing imagery, and violence**.**

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part II: In the Room of Mirrors, Continued_

In the Riddle House where no light of any kind could penetrate through, the Dark Lord Voldemort sat before the burning fireplace like a king on his throne, staring at the sight of the four blood-stained white masks scattered on the ground. By the corner of the room, the sole survivor of the failed mission, whose name was Louis Beddoes, cowered pitifully while mumbling nonsensically to himself.

"Has there been any news from the others or from the Ministry since then?" Voldemort asked the servant who was kneeling before him.

"No, my Lord," the unnamed Death Eater answered while trying in vain to suppress his nervous tremor. "It seems the Ministry officials have not been notified of the breach. And we have heard nothing from Hogwarts since..." The Death Eater did not dare to finish his sentence, for fear of eliciting the wrath of his master.

"My Lord, I ask that you command me to infiltrate the Hogwarts castle tonight," Bellatrix Lestrange, who was standing by Voldemort's side, spoke with conviction like a devout follower that she was. "And if Snape turns out to be a traitor after all, I shall deal with him."

A brief glance from those blood-red eyes of Voldemort's was sufficient for Bellatrix to remember her place. "Traitors shall, of course, be dealt with accordingly. However, it is not now."

Resting his elbow upon the velvet armrest, Voldemort contemplated the pathetic sight of Beddoes curled up by the corner. Attempts though Voldemort had made, he could not delve into Beddoes' mind, for his mind was too chaotic and too shattered. Like a ferocious whirlwind Beddoes' mind was, Voldemort was nearly entrapped in the world where illusion and reality melded into one inseparable being. Nevertheless, he had glimpsed upon a pair of smiling amber eyes, eyes that stirred up memories from his long lost youth.

A mellow voice that was filled with mirthful amusement rang out from the forsaken corner of Voldemort's mind, _"Young Tom Riddle, do you not know that in this world, there are things of far greater horror than death?"_

Suddenly, Beddoes shrank away from those in the room, his eyes widened in unspeakable terror. "Footsteps! Do you hear that? And voices. Someone's whispering! He's by the door! He's coming!" As though wanting to shield himself away from the phantom intruder, Beddoes frantically covered his face with his hands. "No! No! Get away! Get away from me!"

The other Death Eaters were standing uncomfortably in the background while staring uncertainly at their fallen comrade. Bellatrix merely looked at Beddoes with a disdainful expression upon her face, a face that had, at one time, been painted with an arrogant beauty.

Voldemort, unfazed by the outburst, commanded Beddoes to speak, "Who is it that is coming, Beddoes?"

But Beddoes had returned to his incomprehensible murmurs, as though Voldemort's voice was no more than a bird's chirp beneath the morning sun. Realizing he could get no more response from Beddoes for now, Voldemort ordered his other servants with a dismissive wave, "Take him away. The rest of you, leave."

Two of the Death Eaters hastened over to carry Beddoes out of the chamber. One by one the other Death Eaters bowed to Voldemort, and swiftly poured out of the drawing room, leaving Voldemort to his rumination. The last one to leave was Bellatrix, who closed the door quietly behind her.

Gazing down at the white masks that were mocking its maker, Voldemort made a horizontal gesture with his long finger, and the masks immediately disintegrated into fine dust. Woken by his master's cold anger, the snake Nagini, who had been curling up before the hearth throughout the entire exchange, crawled its way towards the armchair, and rested its head on the armrest.

Absently Voldemort patted its head, before he hissed softly to it, "Nagini, I believe it is time that I extend an invitation to young Mr Malfoy." And in response, the snake replied with a venomous hiss.

* * *

Three days of relative peace passed by after the mysterious affair in the South Wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In all appearance, everything had returned to normal, and daily routine was once more exercised; however, within the castle loomed an ever mounting sense of paranoia and tension, which was threatening to break loose at the slightest hint of provocation.

In the veiled chamber that was the Transfiguration classroom, students were filing out the door one by one, not wanting to linger for one more second in the company of the severe deputy headmistress. No students in their right mind would dare cross the path of the Head of Gryffindor House when she was in such a frayed state; yet one student remained still in the classroom as the others beat a hasty retreat.

Standing before McGonagall with his school bag slung over one shoulder was Draco, who regarded the professor with a pensive look upon his face. "What can I do for you, professor?"

"I'm not going to beat around the bushes, Mr Malfoy," McGonagall replied sternly as she stared hard into those reflective grey eyes of Draco's. "Cast the Patronus charm."

Tilting his head to the side nonchalantly, Draco inquired in a curious air, though there was not a hint of surprise in his voice, "May I ask why?"

"You are suspected of involving in the South Wing incident," McGonagall spoke while examining her pupil's reaction, but to her disappointment all she could procure was an aura of dispassionate interest liken to a scientist examining a dissected body. "A Patronus was seen in the castle on the night the event supposedly took place."

"I see," Draco responded with a sigh, which McGonagall had not anticipated. "I suppose it cannot be helped that I become a primary suspect. After all, my actions thus far can only be described as suspicious at best."

Casually Draco placed his bag on one of the desks, and with measured slowness he drew out his wand from the depth of his black school robe. Doubt began to cloud McGonagall's mind as she watched Draco arranged himself in perfect composure. She had expected Draco to evade her demand, and yet without so much of a fight he yielded to her demand; either he was indeed innocent, or he had the means to assume the face of innocence.

With an almost lazy movement, Draco waved his elder-wood wand and spoke the incantation, "_Expecto Patronum_."

Immediately a mist of white flew out of Draco's wand, and quickly shaped itself into that of a bird. And yet, it was not the slim figure of a raven which McGonagall had witnessed on that disorienting night. Stretching its magnificent pearly white wings, the Patronus sailed through the air in graceful arcs like the bird of prey that it was. The shape which the Patronus took was that of an eagle, the very same bird that had graced upon the coat of arms of the Malfoy family ever since its conception.

After circling beneath the vaulted ceiling for some seconds, the Patronus vanished into a wisp of white smoke. Putting his wand away, Draco spoke courteously, "I hope it will be of some help to your investigation, Professor McGonagall. Is there anything further you wish to ask?"

McGonagall narrowed her eyes, unwilling to let her befuddlement be revealed before this riddle of a boy. So certain she had been that the raven Patronus was sent by Draco; and yet it seemed her reasoning had been wrong. While it was true that a Patronus could change its form according to the heart of the conjurer, it seemed improbable that Draco's Patronus could take on a different form in as brief a time lapse as three days.

"You may go," McGonagall uttered her words as though uttering a challenge, which Draco gallantly took up. "But I would like you to know this: I will not tolerate anyone disrupting the peace of this castle."

"Of course. Although, I was under the impression that Hogwarts always resides at the eye of the storm." And with that Draco gave McGonagall a bow, a gesture laced with a hint of concealed condescension. Picking up his school bag from the desk, Draco departed while McGonagall's indignant stare chased after his retreating back.

As Draco was about to step through the portal, he came across Harry and his two best friends, who were about to enter the classroom. Harry, never once expecting he would encounter Draco in such a public setting, froze reflexively as though he had seen a macabre vision. Behind him, Ron fixed a furious glare upon Draco, while Hermione gazed at Draco with what could only be described as a scrutinizing stare. But Harry noticed none of it, for resonating in his mind once more were those disquieting words that flowed out of Draco's mouth, of a murder committed. Without his conscious knowledge, Harry clutched his right hand into a fist; the illusory warmth and the ghostly sensation of Draco's neck beneath his fingers haunted him like an elusive phantom.

As though he had perceived the disturbance in Harry, Draco silently stepped aside to let them pass. For one fleeting moment, Harry wanted to say something to Draco, a query, or even an apology for his action that night. Nonetheless, no words would come to him as he beheld the impassivity in Draco, who had reverted to his enigmatic, unreadable self; Harry could not help but feel a flutter of disappointment.

Unable to find his voice, Harry strolled past Draco without a word. Hermione followed suit, though not before sending a thoughtful glance towards Draco's direction, a glance that Draco met with indifference. Ron, however, refused to simply let Draco be.

"Stay away from us, you hear me?" Ron hissed angrily at Draco, his voice lowered so that no one save Draco could hear the threat he uttered. "Or else I swear I will use all those dark curses Snape talks about in class on you."

"Be my guest," Draco replied unperturbedly, the animosity from time past was curiously absent. "However, you have no authority over my comings and goings."

By then, Harry and Hermione had noticed the unfriendly exchange, as was the rest of the class that was hovering curiously around the doorway, unable to enter since Ron had blocked the entrance. With a sinking feeling, Harry and Hermione rushed over in an attempt to prevent the situation from deteriorating into a brawl.

"Oh yeah?" Ron gritted his teeth irritatedly, like a wolf baring its sharp fangs; Hermione tried to dissuade him but to no avail. "I know what you are up to, Malfoy. Blessing or not, you want something from Harry? Over my dead body."

"Ron!" Harry and Hermione exclaimed in unison, effectively silencing Ron. Instinctively Harry stole a glance at Draco, only to catch a dangerous gleam in Draco's pale grey eyes that caused him to shudder. Fearful that his other classmates might have overheard Ron's words, Harry looked to the small crowd gathered by the door, and to his relief, they merely looked confused.

"What is this?" McGonagall demanded as she halted before the four of them, looking from one face to another, until at last her eyes rested upon Draco for a long look. "Mr Malfoy, go to your class. The rest of you lot, sit down before I start deducting points from my own House."

After casting a brief glance at McGonagall, Draco brushed past Ron, and left the classroom without another word. The other students immediately drew apart for Draco to pass, before noisily pouring into the classroom and taking their places.

The rest of the class passed by uneventfully, though Harry found himself more distracted than ever; the perpetual scowl on Ron's face served as an unfortunate reminder that Ron was not about to stop his crusade against Draco anytime soon. While Hermione was acting the most composed out of them, the troubled frown upon her brow spoke otherwise. More than once Harry caught Hermione throwing furtive glances at him; he had little choice but to play at ignorance.

As McGonagall lectured on about human transfiguration, Harry's mind began to wander. Mentally running through the many encounters he had with Draco, he attempted to search for any potential clue that could lead him to the right direction in this monstrous maze that Draco had woven around himself. It struck him then that despite their relative civility towards each other, Draco had mentioned very little about himself. While Harry knew about his grandfather's enmity towards Voldemort or his mother's departure or even a hint of the conflicted relationship between Draco and his father, that was the extent of Harry's knowledge on Draco.

Although, now that Harry thought about it, Draco did seem to possess a certain affinity with birds in general. The fact that Harry's own owl, Hedwig, had allowed Draco to come close to her, let alone agreed to help Draco deliver a message to Harry, was proof in itself. And Draco seemed to be on good terms with Fawkes the phoenix, judging by what little interaction Harry had witnessed between the two.

The image of the phoenix and of a piece of parchment slowly fluttering downward flashed across Harry's mind, finally unlocking a piece of memory he had chucked away as irrelevant at the time. The night before the discovery in the South Wing was made, Draco was supposed to have a meeting with Dumbledore; Harry had seen with his own eyes the note delivered by Fawkes.

The unnerving feeling of apprehension grew inside of Harry like ivy vines. Dumbledore had not been seen since that night; although the official story from the staff was that he was away on important business, Harry was beginning to suspect it was nothing more than a cover story. If Draco had indeed gone up to the headmaster's office to meet with Dumbledore that night before Dumbledore's disappearance, then it was probable that Draco was one of the last people to have seen the headmaster on that fateful night.

And then there was the gruesome discovery in the South Wing. It seemed too much of a coincidence that just when Dumbledore had seemingly vanished, a liberal amount of blood and a Death Eater mask were found in the South Wing. If what Draco had indirectly communicated to Harry was the truth, then was Draco in fact responsible for Dumbledore's disappearance? Was the blood Dumbledore's? Who did the white mask belong to? A brisk chill ran down Harry's spine like icy stream as he wondered if Dumbledore was the reason for Draco's injured arm. But surely, these were nothing more than conjectures on his part; neither could he prove it nor disprove it.

When class was over at last, Harry was struck by a sudden spark of inspiration. As Ron and Hermione, who had already finished packing their things, looked expectantly at him, Harry said with an apologetic smile, "Need to ask McGonagall about something. You guys go on."

"We'll wait outside then." Hermione elected herself to speak, for it seemed Ron was in too foul a mood to respond. Morosely Ron gave Harry a curt nod, before departing with Hermione, leaving Harry alone with McGonagall.

Hurriedly Harry approached McGonagall, who seemed taken aback that Harry had stayed behind. Grasping for words in the dark, Harry asked as inconspicuously as he could manage, "Professor, I was wondering if there's any way I can contact Professor Dumbledore. There is something I want to talk to him about."

The colour on McGonagall's face changed for a brief second; like a cat who had yet to decide whether the stranger before her was a friend or a foe, she studied Harry with a tinge of wariness. "I'm afraid not, Potter. Is this an urgent matter? Perhaps you can tell me what it is you wanted to talk to the headmaster about."

"No, no, it's fine then," Harry automatically responded while fighting to keep his expression neutral. "Thank you." And with that, Harry exited the room, not once noticing McGonagall's sad gaze trained upon him.

"So?" Ron was the first to ask when Harry came out from the Transfiguration classroom, being the more impatient one of the two. Soon the three of them were weaving through the crowd in the busy corridors.

"I was just asking McGonagall about Dumbledore," Harry answered truthfully, for he had no reason to keep his friends in the dark, even though he had conveniently neglected to mention to them his ulterior motive for such a query in the first place. "McGonagall didn't actually say it out loud, but I think Dumbledore might be sick, or injured."

"That would explain the story about Dumbledore being away on business," Hermione commented while neatly avoiding a female student who nearly crashed into her. "The Order wouldn't want the public, especially Voldemort, to find out that Dumbledore wasn't well. But the timing seems too good, doesn't it?" Hermione looked bothered by the thought.

"You mean the whole South Wing stunt and Dumbledore dropping out of sight?" Ron interjected casually as they made their way down the staircase. "Maybe Dumbledore was ambushed in the South Wing. That sure as hell would explain a few things."

"Maybe." Or so Hermione claimed, but she did not look at all convinced. With a sigh, she added, "We can speculate all we want, but we can't possibly prove our theory without all the facts."

Quietly listening to the discussion between Ron and Hermione, Harry felt no comfort even though it appeared Dumbledore was still alive. In his mind, he saw once more the vicious duel between Dumbledore and the possessed Draco, who was under the influence of one Augustus Grindelwald. Although Harry desperately wanted to believe otherwise, the persistent voice in his head reminded him that Draco had both the motive and the means to commit the murder of Albus Dumbledore.

As the winter breeze seeped through hollowed ceiling and fractured walls into his very core, the poisonous seed of doubt grew into blackened roots of distrust and paranoia, leeching tightly to his heart until he could no longer tell where truth ended and lies began.

* * *

The incessant symphony of raven cries disturbed the brisk, biting air of the winter mountains with ill-boding presentiment. In a less-trodden corridor of Hogwarts castle, Draco, with his hand and forehead pressed against the cold window glass, was listening attentively to the ravens' whispers. No one save Draco himself knew what was being said amongst the flock of ill-omened birds, or what he was seeing in the bright, swirling darkness beneath his veiled eyes.

Eyes shuttered and head drooped, Draco appeared as though he had fallen asleep; and yet, nothing could be further from the truth. The slightest hint of tension in his countenance informed the most observant that Draco had not once lowered his defence, not even when he was in the company of solitude.

And then, ever so slowly, Draco drew away from the window, and turned his back upon the grey-washed vista beyond one of many gaping eyes of Hogwarts castle, his gaze fixated upon the end of the colourless corridor. The sound of footsteps was coming ever closer to where he stood; and soon enough, Snape emerged from the adjacent corridor, and prowled towards Draco in quick strides. Not a sliver of surprise tinted Draco's placid visage as Draco tilted his head at Snape.

Snape halted before Draco, and produced a plain looking envelope from the sleeve of his robe. As he presented it to Draco, he accompanied his gesture with a simple declaration, "Here is the invitation you have no doubt been waiting for."

Overtly Draco reacted with nothing beyond indifference, and yet to perceptive eyes, an oppressive aura was radiating luridly from Draco's frozen eyes; it was like witnessing a fell beast being released at last from its sepulchral prison. Without a word Draco accepted the letter, and after a fleeting glance at the crimson wax seal on the pale envelope, he put it in his pocket.

"I'm glad to see you are well, professor," Draco remarked with unexpected candidness, his voice conveying none of the patronizing tone one would expect from the Malfoy heir. "It must have been a trying ordeal."

"The experience was not an unfamiliar one," Snape responded stoically, effectively masking his bewilderment. "All things considered, it could have been worse had there not been certain _interference_."

The corner of Draco's lips upturned into a wry smile, and yet the words that poured out of his mouth were as piercing as the Iron Maiden's loving embrace. "I was not trying to help you, even though you have reaped the benefit in the end." After a pause, the sardonic smile disappeared as swiftly as it appeared. "It does make one wonder. Had there been no intervention of any sort, would you follow through with the schemeof your _master_?"

Dark eyes narrowed sharply like a blade being drawn from its sheath; seconds turned into a full minute before Snape at last gave his reply, "Yes, I would."

"Then allow me to offer you a piece of advice." Those grey eyes of Draco's were fixed domineeringly upon Snape; that mellow voice of his was tainted with a dangerous undercurrent. "Do not stand between Grindelwald and his marked prey."

Never once straying away from Draco's gaze, Snape responded collectedly, his composure unfaltered despite the growing turmoil in his mind, "Certain members of the staff have surmised that _it _was a farce, a ploy to divert unwanted eyes and ears. But was it truly nothing more than an act?"

"Truth is a double-edged sword; it does not distinguish its allies from its enemies," Draco responded cryptically, like a sphinx who would only speak in puzzling riddles. "Good day to you, professor." And with that, Draco turned on his heels, and departed for the corridor where Snape had emerged from.

For some moment Snape stared at the snowy hills and leaden sky framed by the lattice window, lost in the whirlwind that was his unsettled thought. After a moment of brooding rumination, Snape went on his way, the hem of his robe swept the pale stone floor with the softest of a rustle. The sound of footfall gradually faded into a murmur, and then, silence returned to this monochrome corridor once more.

A figure clad in the standard school uniform of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stepped out from the dark alcove that was concealed from view; eyes of the most fierce of green stared at the distant point where Draco Malfoy of the Slytherin House and his mentor had vanished into. The figure -- a boy with untamed raven hair and spectacles reflecting a sea of grey -- was tightly grasping the thin silver chain around his neck with his fingers, as though he wished nothing more than to tear it away from his neck.

After but a brief moment of hesitation, Harry undid the clasp of the chain, and pulled out the jade amulet from beneath his shirt. Hard eyes stared at the delicate jade bird that was forever frozen in its flight. The splash of scarlet at the heart of the piece was deepening into a hue of dark crimson, as though the winged creature was spilling blood from a wound recently inflicted, one that neither potion nor spell of this world and the next could ever heal.

* * *

The limelight from the sun was extinguished, leaving sparks of shiny dust and a crescent tear on the indigo canvas. Night's curtain fell over the desolate village blanketed by a mantle of snow; of what hidden secret was currently taking shape beneath the velvet draperies one could only surmise.

In the dimly lit hallway of the Riddle House that was stretching into infinite darkness, Draco was led to the drawing room by a stout Death Eater whose face was covered by the infamous white mask, effectively concealing his identity from Draco. The fidgety manner in which the Death Eater moved along the claustrophobic corridor spoke of clear nervousness in the presence of Draco.

Passing through what appeared to be a music room now laid in ruins, they at last arrived at a set of rosewood double-doors. Lightly the Death Eater knocked on the door, and announced with a formality not normally observed in recent time, "I apologize for the intrusion, my Lord. Draco Malfoy has arrived."

"Bring him in," came the voice that was cold as metal and strong as chains, the very marking of one who believed he held a tight leash on the winged being called Destiny in the boundless sky that was Time.

As commanded, the Death Eater twisted the bronze doorknob open, and held the door for Draco. A stream of hazy, golden light spilt onto the corridor, illuminating those mercurial eyes of Draco's with a glimmer of gold for several heartbeats. With easy, unassuming strides Draco stepped into the lair of the serpent, and surveyed the chamber that was completely silent save for the crackling of firewood.

The sole source of lighting in the drawing room was the blazing fireplace embedded into the wall, creating a weak pool of light that was barely able to penetrate the immeasurable depth of the room, where creatures of the dark lurked beneath the blanket of shadow. Vaguely Draco could make out a still painting hung above the mantelpiece: two crowned kings were hovering over a miniature world that was encased in a glowing globe, and in the background were silhouettes of overgrown woods standing over the two kings like guards. (1)

Sitting on the upholstered armchair before the fireplace was Lord Voldemort, who was appraising Draco with vermilion eyes. At length, he gestured to the long sofa adjacent to the armchair with one long finger, and spoke, "Have a seat."

"Thank you," Draco replied with a small bow, and sank gracefully into the sofa. Tilting his head slightly like a curious bird, he studied the painting above the mantelpiece.

Sensing Draco's interest in the painting, Voldemort also turned his gaze upon the painting. Folding his hands together in contemplation, he asked in a deceptively soft-spoken voice liken to the whisper of a snake-charmer, "What do you think of this painting?"

"I'm afraid I don't know much about arts," Draco confessed, and yet he projected an aura of quiet composure rarely seen in those who were in the presence of the notorious dark lord. "But to me, it looks like a war is brewing on the horizon."

The remark heightened Voldemort's interest in this boy whom he could not entirely fathom out, and whose mind was shrouded from his subtle probes. "And why would you think that?"

"There are two kings, and yet there is only one piece of land." Draco paused for a beat, his tone polite yet laced with an unyielding edge. "Ultimately, there can only be one absolute ruler."

A chuckle escaped from Voldemort's throat; he was clearly amused by Draco's response. "Well said, you are truly your father's son. Your father gave me the same response when I asked him."

Like a flash of a blade cutting through the air, those metallic eyes of Draco's sharpened to an unsettling silver, silver that could slice through shadows. When three smart knocks were sounded from outside the drawing room, Draco recollected himself, and yet he knew he had revealed too much before the renowned master of the much feared Death Eaters.

The door was opened, and the Death Eater from before carried a silver tray into the room, before setting it down on the low table rather clumsily, which earned him a cold stare from the reputed Dark Lord. Turning back to Draco as though in apology, Voldemort uttered while lazily leaning his elbow against the armrest, "I presume tea would be more to your liking than wine, since you are not yet of age."

Keeping an eye on the man who was pouring out the tea, Draco bowed his head in gratitude, "I am grateful for your kind consideration. It's Darjeeling, isn't it? And judging by the colour, it looks to be the First Flush." To which Voldemort nodded his assent; Draco continued quietly. "Personally though, I'm more taken by the taste of the Second Flush." (2)

The air was stagnant with silence as the only sound to be heard was of a porcelain saucer striking the walnut wood surface. After a momentary lapse, Voldemort's bloodless lips curled into a distorted, unnatural smile, like the smile of a blood-thirsty vampire who was about to spring for his victim. At length, Voldemort took up the saucer, and twirled the cup around by its ceramic ear. "Taste is a subjective matter," he remarked, and savoured the delicately brewed liquid. "But to each his own."

The servant departed without so much of a sound save for the softest of a thud as the door was closed, leaving the rightful lord of the estate alone with his guest. The flame in the hearth flared wildly about; grotesque shadows writhed in unrest, as though struggling with the silken chains that were holding them in place.

"Of the two kings, who would you rather see flourish?" Voldemort addressed to Draco as he gestured at the painting. A continuation of their previous discussion on arts though it might seem, the thread of the conversation had strayed away to a path of more vicious circumstance. A test was what it was; this entire meeting was in itself a test.

"The one with the strongest of will," Draco replied calmly as he met Voldemort's gaze unflinchingly, "who understands well how to strike at one's heart, who is willing to stain his hand with blood and step upon countless corpses to attain what he desires."

"And which do you think Dumbledore belongs to? The strong-willed, or the weak-minded?" Voldemort asked, his scarlet pupils bored into Draco's unreadable grey.

"It doesn't matter if one doesn't have long to live. He is already marked for death." Leaning forward, Draco picked up the china tea cup, and blew at the wisp of wavering steam that was rising from the lightly tinted tea. "It was his luck that he was discovered so soon."

"Whether it was indeed through luck or," Voldemort smiled a cold, unnatural smile, "through deliberate intervention is of no consequence. I will let you have Dumbledore's life, as a token to Augustus Grindelwald whom I was fortunate to have met in my youth."

Like a stone statue who possessed but one facade forever etched in hard stone, Draco remained unshakeably aloof. "Grindelwald told me a lot of things, about the location in which he had concealed his research papers and a certain black book, and about how a boy named Tom Riddle, who had been particularly interested in Grindelwald's work, had at one time attempted to secure an apprenticeship with him. I only found out later that Grindelwald's research notes were in my father's possession; and I have an inkling as to where he got them from."

Crimson eyes flashed dangerously; the inhumanly pallid face twisted in violent tempest. Nonetheless, Voldemort remained silent as he held Draco in his critical scrutiny, his gaze lingered on the cup in Draco's hand for a fleeting second.

"Blaspheming the name of the Guillotine in order to lure Grindelwald out is a futile act, for he had no interest in the conflict between the light and the dark." Draco held the rim of the cup to his lips, his golden pupils gleaming with an eerie light liken to that of the Samhain sickle-moon. "His reply stands the same as before, 'Those who hold no respect for Death do not deserve to learn of its secrets.'" And then, he tilted the cup, and let the warming liquid flow into his throat.

The suppressed fury in Voldemort suddenly evaporated like a mime who had taken on another mask; he was laughing in a harsh, high-noted voice not unlike that of a black-omened crow. "Ah, you are a bold one. You remind me so much of Grindelwald, and of your late grandfather."

"I am nothing like my grandfather," Draco said quietly as he set the cup down onto the table. "He dared to drink the entire cup, while I only took in a few swallow." About the corner of his mouth was a faint, puzzling smile that was laden with jaded bitterness. "Ah, the one thing that is more terrifying than death indeed."

A series of loud commotion suddenly erupted from somewhere deep within the estate, shattering the disguise of stifling quietude that had loomed over the Riddle House, successfully drawing Voldemort's attention away. Taking the precious opportunity, Draco swiftly drew out the wand he had concealed in his sleeve, and with the practiced ease of one who had stared into the dead, glassy eyes of his victims, cast the curse.

* * *

Stillness was all one could detect in the deserted corridors of the South Wing; time was trickling by in near inertia. Roaming around the South Wing in the witching hour with naught but his lit wand to light his path, Harry had the unsettling impression that he had strolled into an ancient catacomb where every sound was being swallowed by the earth.

Pallid light brushed past reflective windows and faceless walls in exploration, neither of which were willing to divulge to him the many secrets they had kept locked in their hollow hearts. The blood from before had already been cleared away, yet the rancid stench of copper lingered on like haunting spirits. The scent of blood made his stomach turn; nonetheless, lurking beneath the vague repulsion was a sliver of indescribable tranquillity.

After what seemed like a fortnight worth of paces, he at last came upon an archway with doors thrown open on both sides, beyond which was what appeared to be a circular chamber. Holding his wand ahead of him, Harry ventured into the room, and discovered that he had stumbled into the ground level of a tower. However, the design of the tower was unlike any building he had ever before seen. There were neither stone steps winding along the circular walls in ascent, nor, as far as the conjured lighting would allow him to see, were there any windows built into the walls to entice a touch of gentle moonbeam into the chamber; the tower was like a stone prison, a sarcophagus of its own making.

Soft whispers were being muttered from somewhere close to him, puncturing the blanket of silence with stinging spikes. As apprehension overtook him, he cast his wand light around him in search of the source of the dismembered voice; he found nothing but nondescript walls. Absently rubbing his prickling brow with his fingers, he directed his wand towards the ceiling. Vaguely he could discern a skeletal chandelier suspended overhead by iron chains; beyond that the enchanted light proved incapable of penetrating the thick darkness that had cloaked the high ceiling beneath its cover.

Alone though he appeared to be, Harry felt an anxious tingling at the back of his neck. He could sense intrusive eyes following his every movement like a vulture lying in wait, appraising him, measuring him. Was the dead spying upon him, or was it all stemmed from his own morbid imagination? Despite his rationalizing attempt, a chill coursed through his blood veins; Harry had a disquieting suspicion that these murmuring walls around him had seen countless deaths during their lethargic lifetime.

Letting out a deep breath, he collected his scattered thoughts, and resumed his examination of the tower. Nonetheless, he was not granted the luxury to examine further, for a sharp pain liken to that of being branded by hot iron exploded in his head, blinding him with sparks of white. Digging his fingers into his burning scar, he felt every fibre of his being shook in agony. Unable to withstand the onslaught, his legs gave way beneath him. The wand in his hand fell onto the floor with a clatter, its light extinguished; he was plunged into darkness. Images of a dusky room lit by angry flame flashed before Harry's eyes, overlapping with the after-images of the empty, desolate tower like a phantasmagoric waltz.

The flow of time had come to a halt as he knelt on the cold floor, his hands desperately clutching his head, his breathing laborious and harsh. In the midst of the tantalizing pain, he sensed a sudden presence beside him. Raising his head mechanically, he found himself locking eyes with Draco. Even though there was not a sliver of light in the tower, Harry could see clearly the pallid visage and the impenetrable folds of the black robe; it was as though Draco was being blessed with an otherworldly glow as ethereal as a spectre.

Transfixed, Harry stared at Draco, who was wearing a most peculiar expression upon his face. There was something horribly warped about this apparition before him. Even though this being before him wore Draco's face, with the same angular contour, the same shade of blond locks, the same pair of pale grey eyes, Harry could not tell whom he was beholding: Abraxas Malfoy, the ruthless diplomat who viewed people as chess-pieces? Sirius Black, the roguish figure doomed to suffer indignation in life? Augustus Grindelwald, the devious, capricious master of necromancy with an unsettlingly pleasant smile? Or simply Draco Malfoy?

Draco was silently gazing at him with those glassy eyes of his, his body staying unnaturally still, like an unmoving doll who knew not what life was. And yet, after several tense beats, Draco reached out to envelop Harry's cheeks gently in his palms, his hands clammy and cold like the skin of a reptile; Harry could not help but shudder in aversion. Repulsed though Harry was by Draco's touch, he found himself unable to draw away from this ghastly, mesmerizing creature.

Deathly pale lips parted; a soft, melodic voice escaped from those lips. "'Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.'" Cold hands slid downward onto Harry's throat; cold lips inched so close to his own he could almost taste their necrophilic breath. "Will you give me your head on a silver platter?" (3)

Seized by a bout of fright, Harry struck at Draco, and uttered words that flowed naturally out of his mouth without his conscious knowledge; his hand collided with nothing but air. Staring at the vacant space where Draco had been kneeling before him only some seconds ago, Harry distantly realized the pain in his head had subsided. Driven by an irrepressible impulse, Harry rubbed his throat; the sensation of frozen hands circling his neck was too vivid, and like an invisible noose the sensation lingered still in his quivering flesh.

Casting aside the disturbing memory for the moment, Harry fumbled around for his wand. Engulfed in the dark he was, it took him some time to locate it. When his fingers at last closed around a familiar strip of wood, a wisp of warmth seeped into his chest, though it could not entirely dispel the uneasiness that had dominated his mind. With a silent incantation, he summoned forth the preternatural light once more. With a keen eye Harry studied the achromatic scene of light and dark around him, and yet, nothing seemed amiss.

The accursed scar on his forehead was prickling still, reminding him mockingly of his recent ordeal that was all too real: he had somehow pried into the mind of the Dark Lord again. Such mental assaults had not occurred to Harry for some time; and he had been vainly hoping it would remain that way. Heaving a heavy sigh, he attempted to recall all that he had seen and heard. And yet, a slate of blank was all that he could draw upon, not even a fragment could be recaptured from his disoriented mind save for an icy chill biting into his neck.

Shuddering from the memory, Harry shakily got up from the floor, and slowly made his way towards the door. Distantly he perceived he was in no condition to continue his search, but he would rather get it over with now than to suffer further uncertainty. His effort turned out to be for naught, however; he could find neither an entrance to a supposed secret tunnel nor clues concerning the supposed crime committed within these walls. Like a pair of stealthy snakes, relief and dread were entwining his mind in an uncanny embrace. Would it have pleased him if he were to succeed in his search? It was a question he would rather not contemplate.

Knowing he had far prolonged his stay in the South Wing, he had little choice but to return to the Gryffindor tower. Minutes later, he was once more standing at the main entrance of the South Wing, where a metallic scent tingled his nostrils unpleasantly. Waving away the light in hope of eluding detection, he stepped over the threshold, and cautiously navigated through the various twists and turns in the maze that was the main section of Hogwarts castle.

As he crept around a corner, he caught a soft rustling coming from somewhere ahead of him. Halting on his steps, he heard a whipping sound suggestive of someone making a sudden sharp movement. Instantly Harry tensed with alarm, and felt for his wand beneath his robe. Squinting at the looming dimness, he saw faintly a silhouette standing stock still against the wall, one arm raised as though grasping for him. Nonetheless, before Harry could react, the figure had lowered the arm, and silently retreated to a narrow side passage.

For some moment Harry stayed rooted to the ground, his mind reeling with consternation, for the lean figure and the feline, if slightly faltering, movement were familiar to his critical eyes. The urge to run after the figure was overpowering, but with some effort he suppressed it; he doubted he would achieve anything through such thoughtless behaviour.

A sudden weariness came over him like a heavy fog, clouding his already fatigued mind with languor. Vigorously shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mind, he continued on his way once more. Stumbling slightly on his steps, he was about to climb the grand staircase when he was momentarily blinded by a candlelight emitted from a lantern.

Shielding his eyes from the glaring light, Harry heard a woman's voice throwing out a brisk inquiry at him, a voice belonging to the Head of Gryffindor House, "Potter, what are you doing here at this hour?" Harry's heart sank at the voice; for he knew McGonagall would not let him off easily for breaking the curfew.

When his eyes had grown accustomed to the light from the lamp, Harry beheld the vexed visage of McGonagall, before he realized McGonagall was not alone. Haggard and pale though he appeared to be, like a patient who had recently recovered from a serious illness, the white beard and the wrinkled face lined with decades of history and wisdom were unmistakable; it was Dumbledore.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry immediately blurted out, no longer caring for his manner in the midst of stupefied wonder. "You are alright? What's going on? Have you been away all this time?"

McGonagall was about to speak before Dumbledore interrupted her with a raised hand, effectively silencing whatever words she had meant to utter, though not before she gave Dumbledore a long, searching look. It was clear that McGonagall and Dumbledore had a disagreement over a certain matter which Harry was not given the privilege to be informed of. Although Harry reasoned that there was probably a valid explanation for such unintended secrecy, he could not entirely cast aside the hint of resentment from his mind.

"These are questions I shall, without a doubt, provide to you their appropriate replies, but this is neither the time nor the place," Dumbledore said serenely, before he directed his sombre eyes upon Harry in grave contemplation. "However, there is something I must ask you first. By any chance, have you run into anyone while you were on you way, I presume, back to your dormitory?"

The sliver of aggravation aroused from Dumbledore's evasion of his queries was forgotten for the moment; instead, the memory of his encounter with the cloaked figure fluttered uneasily in Harry's mind for a fleeting heartbeat. Meeting Dumbledore's level gaze blankly, Harry heard himself reply in a listless voice liken to that of a hypnotized marionette, "No, I didn't see anyone."

_

* * *

__To be continued..._

1. Inspired by Lithuanian painter Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis' painting, _The Kings, Fairy-tale_. However, the painting in this story is not an exact replica of Ciurlionis' artwork.

2. First Flush and Second Flush refer to the plucking periods of the Darjeeling tea leaves. The First Flush is said to yield a tea that is light and delicate in taste and colour, while the Second Flush is full with a fruity, muscatel flavour.

3. "Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan," is a quote from Oscar Wilde's play, _Salome__: A Tragedy in One Act__._

A/N: Another apology is in order for the late update. The threads are beginning to tighten, as will the connection between Harry and Draco. Thank you for reading, and a further thank you to those who've reviewed my fics, especially to the anonymous reviewers whom I am unable to reply to.


	7. Part II End

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The novella _The Turn of the Screw_ belonged to Henry James.

Warning: Dark themes, disturbing imagery, and violence.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part II: In the Room of Mirrors, End_

Staggering slightly on his steps, Draco placed his palm against the rough stone wall for support. The rugged edges dug into his hand like spikes, urging his exhausted self away from the brink of unconsciousness. The sickening sensation in his stomach informed him that the antidote had yet to completely rid his body of poison; and the pain-numbing potion he had ingested was beginning to lose its effect. Nevertheless, he knew he must not be seen in such a state. Calling upon every ounce of his strength, he willed himself to walk on.

The swaying of the firelight and the movement in the air caught Draco's attention, prompting Draco to tense in alarm. A door silently slid open from within; and emerging from behind the door was none other than Snape. Clad in typical black, Snape cast his equally black eyes upon Draco, his uncaring expression wavered for a beat when he noticed Draco's bloodless face and the protective manner in which Draco held his abdomen.

Too weary was Draco that he forewent his usual word game, and stated plainly, "The Dark Lord is still alive, regrettably," with a pointed regard at Snape's left arm, where the Dark Mark was hidden beneath the black, voluminous fabric.

Shrewdly Snape stared into Draco's grey eyes; the slightest frown on his brows informed Draco that Snape had noticed the way his grey pupils were dilated due to poisoning. "Then perhaps it is time that you reconsider Dumbledore's offer to a temporary alliance," Snape remarked.

"Our methods are too different," Draco replied nonchalantly, before a bitter smile unknowingly crept its way onto his lips. "Besides, wasn't it only several days ago that I made an attempt on Dumbledore's life? I doubt I would be forgiven so easily."

The corner of Snape's mouth twisted downwards ever so slightly; it was as though he was annoyed by Draco's self-depreciating comment, even if it was the truth. After a pause, Snape held out a glass bottle containing a turquoise solution to Draco, and said quietly, "If you don't want it, throw it away."

Draco recognized the luminescent liquid -- a powerful healing potion brewed specifically for countering the effect of dark curses. For several heartbeats, Draco studied Snape with those searching grey eyes of his, wondering if he ought to trust the Head of Slytherin House. Nonetheless, the growing pain in his body was protesting against any further delay for proper treatment. Taking the bottle from Snape's outstretched hand, Draco muttered a word of gratitude. A nod of acknowledgement was all Draco received from Snape before he disappeared into his office once more, the nondescript door closed with a soft click.

When Draco arrived at his room at last, the dying ember in the fireplace reignited itself, bringing to Draco the warmth and light he sought after. Letting out a breath he knew not he had been holding, he took off his large black cloak and discarded it carelessly on the bed. His body, which had been concealed in the secure folds of the cloak, was riddled with wounds; there were several tears on his clothes, red soaked into black.

As he listlessly held the bottle of swirling sea green against the firelight, a pair of widened green eyes flashed briefly in his mind like a bolt of lightning. Always within their depths laid an earnest transparency almost tantalizing to behold. And yet, in Draco's mind he now saw a pair of dark, tempestuous pupils that were glowing the most sinister of crimson.

* * *

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Albus," McGonagall remarked, while fixing Dumbledore with the sternest of glare from where she stood by the fireplace like an interrogator that she was. In response, Dumbledore, who was sitting by the fireside with Fawkes perched on the armrest of the upholstered armchair, let out a sigh as he absently ran his hand over Fawkes' shiny feathers.

It was in the headmaster's living room where the headmaster and his deputy congregated after the fruitless trip to the South Wing. From the cosy decor of the room, one could discern at the headmaster's fondness for classical music, esoteric knowledge, and sweets.

Gazing at McGonagall with a thoughtful expression upon his wrinkled face, Dumbledore finally said, "I suppose Severus did not tell you then. The Dark Lord has been questioning Severus' loyalty ever since the possession incident."

"He didn't tell You-Know-Who about the Blessing placed on Potter." It was not a query from McGonagall, but a plain remark. There was little doubt in her mind as to the reason for Snape's defiance, for she knew Snape had been under the guidance of Abraxas Malfoy at one time.

"Quite so." Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "The assassination of the current headmaster of Hogwarts -- that was how Voldemort wanted to test Severus' loyalty."

Tightening her lips into a thin line, McGonagall said, a note of distress seeping into her voice, "Were you planning on dying in the first place?"

Gazing out from beneath those half-moon glasses of Dumbledore's was a pair of azure eyes as calm as the glass-like surface of an undisturbed lake. "I would have attempted to avoid it if I could. Nonetheless, I did not anticipate interference from Draco. In his own convoluted way, he has saved both Severus and myself from a sudden death."

An oddly worded remark that it was, McGonagall could not help but raise her eyebrows. "What do you mean by him saving the both of you?"

"It was nothing more than a mere theory of mine, though I have some confidence in saying that I have brushed upon part of the truth. Yes, think of it as a story if you may." And with the air not unlike that of a wandering bard from ancient times, Dumbledore began his narration.

"First of all, I think it is best that I point out the motivations of the players involved. As you already know, Voldemort wanted to test the extent of Severus' loyalty to him, but there was another reason behind his scheme. If it were made known that Death Eaters have infiltrated Hogwarts, the Ministry would intervene accordingly, which is precisely what Voldemort wanted to see. Not only would the incident spark further tension between the administration at Hogwarts and the Ministry over the jurisdiction of Hogwarts, it would allow Voldemort a perfect opportunity to mobilize the pieces he had planted in the Ministry and exploit Hogwarts' vulnerability for future attacks.

"Draco, on the other hand, has different ideas. As a Malfoy, his first and foremost concern is the Blessed one, that is, Harry. He made the connection that my death would weaken the defence at Hogwarts, and by extension, weaken Harry's protection against Voldemort. In addition to that, intervention from the Ministry would prevent Draco from moving freely about both inside and outside of Hogwarts.

"Then we come to Severus. He was in a dilemma, where he must choose between my death or his. Should he fail in his mission, it is probable that he would be killed. Conversely, if he succeeds, he would become Voldemort's trusted lieutenant, with myself serving as the sacrifice.

"And thus, our tale begins. Some time ago, whether through coincidence or otherwise, Draco learnt that Mr Theodore Nott had been assigned by Voldemort with a task -- to find a way to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts castle. Draco had most likely inferred that the purpose of the attack was not to besiege the castle, but rather, to assassinate me. Because of the two reasons I have mentioned above, Draco had two objectives in mind: to keep me alive, and to deal with the Death Eaters in a way that would not alert the attention of the Ministry officials.

"Through manipulation of some kind, he managed to gain Theodore's trust so that Theodore would let him assist in the operation. Thus, Draco began to formulate his plan. Deducing rightly that the various tunnels leading to and fro Hogsmeade would be guarded, Draco found another way instead, a path which could easily be transformed into the most perfect trap -- South Wing, or rather, the Morrigan Hall." _(1)_

At those words, McGonagall eyed Dumbledore critically, and spoke in her most severe voice, "How did Mr Malfoy know about the Morrigan Hall? No one outside of the Heads of Houses was supposed to know where the entrance to the Morrigan Hall is, let alone the _keys_ necessary to open the doors or even the existence of the hidden tunnel beneath the tower."

A wisp of dark current was running through Dumbledore's countenance, allowing his audience a glimpse of the terrible power hidden beneath the facade of geniality. And yet, Dumbledore's voice remained as soothing as a lullaby. "Draco knows because Augustus Grindelwald knows; that is all I can say.

"On the night of the attack, Draco stunned Theodore and erased his memory. After that, he came to see me as per my request. Originally I was going to immobilize him in order to keep him away, but I did not foresee that he would attack me in turn. Alas, I was prevented from going forth to what could likely be my doom, while Draco managed to acquire the _key_ necessary to open the trapdoor -- the blood of the current headmaster.

"In order to make sure I would be found quickly and to lead the attention of the staff astray, he sealed the entrance to my office -- which gave him more time to prepare -- and alerted you of my condition. He expected the staff would be more occupied with trying to save me first than searching for the culprit."

McGonagall interrupted again, this time with a troubled frown etched deeply onto her face. "The Patronus that was sent to me was in the form of a raven; and yet, the one that Mr Malfoy conjured the other day took the form of an eagle. How could that be possible?"

There was a piercing gleam in Dumbledore's eyes. "I confess it puzzles me as well. There are too many mysteries surrounding Draco and his connection with Augustus for us to speculate at this point. But let us not dwell on it anymore.

"There is a significance to the poisoned dagger which Draco had used to wound me. My being poisoned meant Severus would be forced to stay by my side and assist Poppy in healing me. He would not be able to help his fellow Death Eaters; at the same time, he could not assassinate me in full view of the other Heads of Houses and the school matron without exposing his identity. Those were the legitimate excuses Draco had given Severus for failing to accomplish his mission. Thus, Severus was able to escape the most severe of punishment at the hands of Voldemort.

"What exactly happened in the Morrigan Hall I cannot say. Nonetheless, Draco had definitely made use of the peculiar properties of the Morrigan Hall -- once the doors were shut, they could not be opened from either side unless one possessed the _key_. The Death Eaters obviously would not have known about the _keys_, hence they were trapped once the doors were closed.

"And from what Severus had told you, of the five Death Eaters who were sent, only one returned to Voldemort's side. There is little doubt in my mind that the other four were dead."

Fleetingly Dumbledore touched his throat, where he was grazed by the curse much feared by witches and wizards alike during the duel with his old friend in the guise of his student; he knew all too well how capable Draco could be after receiving Grindelwald's teaching.

"The fifth person was released and sent back to Voldemort as a messenger. After that, Draco disposed of the bodies. Nonetheless, he left behind the blood and a mask from one of the Death Eaters, presumably as a warning to anyone within Hogwarts who were supporting Voldemort's cause. It was similar to that time when he attacked Mr Cormac McLaggen on behalf of Harry -- a display which could be read as a prank by some and a threat by a knowing few."

Reeling though she was from Dumbledore's detailed story, McGonagall acutely sensed that there were unexplained gaps in Dumbledore's tale, a conscious omission of certain details which she knew not what of. In particular, Dumbledore's obvious reluctance to speak of his former friend perked McGonagall's curiosity, for she had an inkling that it was more than mere sentiments that held Dumbledore's tongue. And yet, she had too much respect for Dumbledore to pry further upon a subject he did not wish to discuss.

Meanwhile, after concluding his narration, Dumbledore contemplated those dark eyes of the fire bird as though they were the most interesting things in the world. He found it difficult to believe that it had been mere coincidence for Fawkes to be absent on the night when he was attacked, or for Fawkes to heal his injury with his tears three days after the attack. Perhaps it was not so far-fetched a presumption that Fawkes had acted upon Draco's request.

The brief moment of quiet rumination was shattered when McGonagall spoke up once more, "What are you planning to do with Mr Malfoy?"

Closing his eyes as if his entire being was laden with fatigue, Dumbledore leant heavily into the armchair, and said, "I shall do nothing, for what I have is no more than an unproven theory woven together by fragments of witness statements and my own conjectures. As for myself, I shall speak no more of the matter."

The subtle command cloaked beneath Dumbledore's jaded words was not lost on McGonagall. Although she had every mind to protest, she understood that Dumbledore's mind was set; no force of this world or the next would sway his iron-clad resolve. There was little McGonagall could do but to accept the headmaster's decision, be it wise or otherwise.

* * *

The restless night at last came to an end as the sky was gradually dyed a greyish white. Creatures of the night were once more taking refuge beneath the shades, patiently awaiting the return of their veiled mistress.

When Hogwarts was at last awoken from its uneasy slumber, students emerged from the warm sanctuary that was their dormitory and congregated in the Great Hall for their morning meal. But what awaited them in the pallid grand hall only Harry knew. At the head table where the staff members were assembled, the vacant seat in the middle was once more occupied by the illustrious headmaster of Hogwarts. Like a beacon penetrating through a heavy, inscrutable fog, the reassuring presence of the headmaster easily dispelled the nervous paranoia looming over the ancient castle for the past few days.

"Hey, Dumbledore's back." Looking genuinely relieved, Ron was quick to comment as he grabbed a piece of toast from the stack on the long table. "Good thing too. Now we have nothing to worry about anymore."

Making a noncommittal sound in response while pouring himself a cup of tea, Harry privately wished he could share Ron's optimism. Although in all appearance Dumbledore seemed fine, Harry thought he detected a shadow of gauntness lingering over Dumbledore's face still, like a visible scar left behind after a trying ordeal.

"He looks like he's been sick for some time." Ever observant, Hermione expressed her keen insight. "It must've been difficult to be in a position where everyone is depending on him. For as long as he shall live, he must shoulder pressure from all sides without voicing a single complaint. I wonder if he gets tired of it sometimes."

Such view had never occurred to Harry before. Like many in the wizarding world, he had taken for granted that Dumbledore would be their protector; and yet, few if any had ever considered the headmaster's feelings. The position upon which Dumbledore presided over was a solitary one, one that oddly echoed Draco's. However befuddling it was to Harry, he could not deny that there was a certain likeness between Dumbledore and Draco, in that neither of them seemed inclined to talk about themselves. Like a miser jealously guarding over his mountain of gold, they kept everything close to their hearts.

Distracted by the sudden prickling on his forehead, the direction of Harry's chain of thought took a turn towards his misadventure last night. Past experience had taught him that only when Voldemort was feeling an intense emotion inside of him would Harry be able to read his mind. Did something happen to Voldemort last night? Was there any connection between his vision of Draco and his prying into Voldemort's mind? Assuming Draco had not been merely taking a stroll about the castle last night, did Draco slip out of the castle and meet with Voldemort? And was it possible that Harry had seen Draco through Voldemort's eyes?

Glancing past vaguely familiar faces at the Slytherin table, Harry found that Draco was not amongst them. A pang of agitation flashed across Harry's mind briefly like the glaring light from a mirror; the infamous scar on his forehead began to burn. Rubbing his forehead with his knuckles, Harry tightened his lips. What bothered him most of all was that even though he had seen Draco in the corridor last night, he had misled Dumbledore into thinking he had not encountered anyone. For the like of him, he could not fathom out a reason for his action, which left him feeling as though he was an accessory to an unknown crime.

A chill fluttered against his neck like the icy breath of a ghost, reminding him unnervingly of a pair of cold, phantom hands encircling his neck in a macabre caress. Shivering slightly from the disturbing memory, Harry unconsciously reached for the pendant that was no longer there. Even as a sense of loss trickled into his mind when his hand clutched onto nothing but plain fabric, he felt irritated at himself for his weakness.

The beating of hundred of wings startled Harry out of his reverie, and for one delusional moment, he thought he would see a cloud of feathery black; what he beheld instead were owls of grey and tawny and brown arriving to deliver the daily mail. Figuring he would not receive any letters today, Harry returned to the cup of tea that would serve as the entirety of his breakfast. For some reason, the sight of food brought about a faint spell of nausea in him.

As he reached over the table for the bowl of sugar, he heard an alarmed gasp coming from Hermione, who was sitting beside him. Unceremoniously Hermione thrust her copy of the _Daily Prophet _at Harry's face, and stabbed at the headline with her finger.

"There's been another beheading," Hermione said breathlessly, clearly disturbed by the news. "Apparently a junior Ministry official named Louis Beddoes disappeared three days ago, and his decapitated body turned up this morning by the visitor's entrance of the Ministry."

Wanting to read the article on his own, Harry grabbed the newspaper from Hermione's unresisting hand. Splashed upon the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ was the headline printed in bold lettering: _Ministry Official Beheaded._ Nonetheless, the headline was but an afterthought compared to the lurid black-and-white photograph capturing the scene of the crime.

The slightly battered telephone booth was as Harry had remembered it, a forlorn alcove with a crooked sign saying _Out of Order_ pasted to the door. Lying on the concrete ground some distance away was a humanoid shape covered by a long white cloth like a funereal shroud that it was. Another cloth was thrown over a smaller round object near the sliding door of the telephone booth; Harry felt sick to the stomach as he realized what the object was.

As Harry stared blankly at the grisly photograph before him, scattered pieces of information clicked into place like the wheels and cogs of an exacting clockwork: Draco's faltering figure as though injured, Harry's burning scar, the invitation given to Draco by Snape as per someone's command, the unexplained three-day disappearance of Beddoes...

Completely absorbed in the gruesome news was Harry that he failed to notice Dumbledore was quietly and swiftly departing from the Great Hall, like a weightless wraith who was but a figment of one's imagination.

* * *

In the claustrophobic cell where one could no more tell night from day than winter from summer, he huddled in a corner upon the cold stone floor, fearfully shrinking away from the stranger who was glowering at him with such undiluted hatred, his eyes glowing with rage amidst the dimness. Gleaming in the man's hand was a wand made of polished pale birch, upon its surface was scattered several drops of blackened carmine. Like a swallow hopelessly staring up at the bird of prey who was sailing rapidly towards him in inevitability, he knew soon he would feel nothing but a flood of pain, his desperate cry for help went unanswered by heaven or earth--

As dream bled into reality, Draco felt a foreign hand clutching his shoulder. Startled by the sudden contact, he sprang up like a feral beast, and drew his wand at the intruder, poising to attack. It took Draco several tense heartbeats to realize he was looking upon the lined face of Dumbledore, who was regarding him with solace and regret. As a sliver of relief quenched his fright, Draco lowered his wand little by little. The spark of energy that had surged through him upon his rude awakening quickly faded away, leaving him with a listlessness he could not entirely disguise, his body aching and straining against his sudden movement.

"I apologize for barging into your room without your consent," Dumbledore said as he picked up the bottle of healing potion from the nightstand, and held it out for Draco to take. "I've been knocking on the door for some time, but since I received no response, I became worried."

Accepting the bottle from Dumbledore with grace, Draco took a sip of the turquoise liquid while taking in the greying, hollowed visage of the headmaster. Although he had been the cause of Dumbledore's recent bedridden state, he had done what he must, for better or for worse. After his spirit was slightly enlivened by the potion, Draco said politely with a bowed head, "I apologize for my rude behaviour earlier."

"No, it's quite alright. I was the one at fault for startling you." Dumbledore waved Draco's apology aside, before summoning a chair for himself. "As for the reason I'm here, there is something I would like you to see." At that Dumbledore produced a folded newspaper clipping from the sleeve of his robe, and gave it to Draco. "This was printed on the front page of today's edition of the _Daily Prophet_."

As soon as the headline entered his line of sight, Draco felt a momentary blank in his mind. Chewing at the inside of his cheek in simmering anger, he scanned through the article, before quietly handing the clipping back to Dumbledore with every ounce of control remained in him. Draco observed that there was little to no blood at the scene of the crime or on the cloth, which did not surprise him, for he knew Beddoes was probably dead before being beheaded.

"I have heard from Professor Snape," Dumbledore said as he surveyed Draco's reaction like a chess player trying to read the moves of his opponent. "I presume you have used a particular curse invented by Augustus Grindelwald on Louis Beddoes. Was Beddoes a messenger, or a Trojan Horse you have planted amongst the Death Eaters?"

A hint of a wry, unsettling smile flitted about Draco's lips, though no words escaped from his mouth. Even though Draco was the mastermind who had engineered Beddoes' downfall, having Beddoes' remains being used for fuelling mistrust between him and the Order left a bitter taste in his mouth. In no way could he prove his own innocence, for the only witness who could clear his name was the very individual who was implicating him for the beheading. And yet, what was done was done, neither succumbing to rage nor wallowing in guilt would change the past.

As though he could surmise what was running through Draco's mind, Dumbledore changed the subject. "It seems you have found another use for my blood to depart from the castle undetected. Imagine my surprise when I was informed that the only person who had supposedly left the castle last night was none other than myself, even though I had no memory of it." Folding his hands together in contemplation, Dumbledore quietly asked, "Is it vengeance that drives you to confront Voldemort, or is it your sense of duty as a Malfoy?"

"Both, I suppose," Draco answered truthfully as he held Dumbledore's gaze. "It hardly matters though, since either way it means Voldemort must be eliminated." And then, in a casual, mellow voice that contrasted markedly with his vicious words, Draco added, his lips curled into an enigmatic smile, "It is a shame that I didn't kill young Tom Riddle when I was offered the golden chance on a silver platter. Alas, there is no helping it now."

Never once did Draco notice the abrupt change in his tone; it was as though such was his natural pattern of speech. Nonetheless, the metamorphosis did not escape Dumbledore's ear; and it disturbed him greatly, for the contradictory mannerism of gentle cruelty could only have come from one person.

In a firm and commanding voice, Dumbledore called out to his pupil, willing him to wake from the enchantment cast upon him by the dead, "Draco."

Unhurriedly Draco turned to Dumbledore, and for a moment, Dumbledore saw the ageless visage of his old friend tilted towards him in faint curiosity, an amiable yet secretive smile lurking about his lips. What Draco beheld in the headmaster at that moment no one knew save himself; nonetheless, those leaden grey eyes of Draco's had narrowed in displeasure.

"Professor Dumbledore," Draco spoke in a barely audible whisper, "who do you see when you look at me? Draco Malfoy, the insolent brat of Slytherin House, or Augustus Grindelwald, your old friend from before?"

Those azure eyes of Dumbledore's were shadowed, like twin reflections of the sombre, grieving sky. Slow and deliberate was Dumbledore as he gave his reply, "I regard you as my student, Draco."

"Can you swear to it that you do not see Grindelwald's ghost in me?" Draco countered in an oddly apathetic voice, momentarily forgetting that he was addressing to the headmaster of Hogwarts. "If the dead hasn't left their mark on me, would any of the professors, or the Order for that matter, be as concerned about my circumstances?" Only when those accusing words left his mouth did Draco realize he had crossed the line; he supposed the fatigue lurking within him had dulled his mind. "I apologize. That was uncalled for."

Time trickled by like fine sand in an hourglass as Dumbledore studied this prideful pupil of his. When the candlelight on the nightstand flickered hesitantly, Dumbledore replied in a tone bespoke of ruefulness, "Yes, I can sense Augustus in you, as well as Sirius and your grandfather, but Augustus' presence remains the strongest."

A pale eyebrow arched in sardonic amusement; the corner of Draco's mouth curled upward into a faintly twisted smile. "I suppose that's the reason why Potter is so wary of me."

Unbeknownst to Draco, Dumbledore had caught a glimpse of Draco's true self uncloaked from the many masks he wore. It brought along a whiff of sadness and guilt in Dumbledore, for he had never before attempted to discover the face concealed beneath the facade of indifference and arrogance. Had he approached Draco early on and extended his hand, Draco might not have fallen into the spiral he could no longer escape from.

Advices were all Dumbledore had, wisdom which he had attained through much trials and sorrow. "I think you should confide everything to Harry. Only through interaction can misunderstanding be cleared. If left on its own, the seed will take root and bear its evil fruits. And Draco," melancholic blue pupils met Draco's blank, ashen grey, "do not carry the burden alone. One can only carry so much weight before one breaks."

"I was under the impression that one does not normally offer sound advices to his attacker," Draco responded with a crooked head, his cultured demeanour laced with a patronizing note.

"And yet here I am, alive and well," Dumbledore countered pensively and spread his arms wide in emphasis, the sleeves of his indigo robe swept through the air like a pair of wings. "I know how much you have gone through to keep this docile old wizard alive, and for that I sincerely thank you. As would Professor Snape, that I am sure of."

Casting a sidelong glance at Dumbledore, Draco said dispassionately, "It does not change the fact that Grindelwald had asked me to kill you." Weariness was beginning to crawl over his being like famished insects; and Draco could do little but to lean against the headboard for support. "Voldemort has supposedly taken you off his _list_. Therefore, rest assured that either myself or old man Time will be the one to kill you."

For some inexplicable reason, a serene smile had fluttered onto Dumbledore's face like a lit fire, radiating a warmth Draco could neither feel nor touch. "I shall be waiting then." And then, one of Dumbledore's elliptic lenses caught the candlelight by the bed, ominously shielding one darkening blue eye from Draco's gaze. "And I suppose you will not divulge to me the details of the pact between you and Augustus, even if I had already fathomed out a thing or two."

Within those silver irises of Draco's was reflected a golden glow of firelight not unlike the hue of eerie amber, before those thin lips of Draco's formed into a smile as sharp as the scimitar's edge. "I'm afraid not, professor," Draco replied placidly, before headmaster and pupil exchanged a look akin to two swords clashing against each other in a battle for glory.

Breaking away from the unspoken duel of will, Dumbledore got out of his chair slowly, and banished it back to where it belonged. "I shall be on my way now. I will ask the house-elves to bring your meals to your room." Profound cerulean orbs searched the pallid face that was laden with burden not originally meant for this pupil of his to carry. "I still believe you should speak with Harry. Have faith in him, and let him decide for himself whether to place his trust in you after you have presented your case." A shadow of remorse was painted upon Dumbledore's face. "Do not make the same mistake I once did."

Tentatively Draco raised his head, and looked upon Dumbledore with those mercurial eyes of his. No words of any kind came out of Draco's mouth, nor was there a need for spoken commentary, for Draco knew to which incident Dumbledore was referring to -- that of Sirius Black. Eyes downcast in rumination, Draco gazed at a distant point just beyond the border of this world. And quietly Dumbledore departed, leaving his student to his thoughts.

* * *

Like snakes wriggling to the seductive melody of the flute, white steam was rising unsteadily from the gently bubbling potion in the brass cauldron. When several henbane leaves were scattered onto the surface of the silvery liquid, the potion turned into a beautiful shade of grey-tinted lilac. And then, more leaves were dropped into the cauldron, dying the potion into violet.

"Stop, Harry! You are adding too many." Hermione hurriedly warned Harry when she noticed the careless manner in which Harry threw more and more henbane leaves into the cauldron. "It will turn into poison!"

Awoken from his reverie, Harry automatically stopped what he was doing, and blinked at the sea of black in the cauldron. Looking up at Hermione, he found that Hermione was watching him with a mixture of worry and exasperation.

"I'm not the one who's going to drink it," Harry said offhandedly with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Ron stifled his snicker with a snort, pretending he was clearing his throat; Ernie, on the other hand, disguised his nearly bursting laughter as a sneeze.

"I don't think poisoning the professor will get you good marks," Hermione spoke patiently to Harry while glaring at the two offenders.

"But think of it this way. Slughorn couldn't give you a failing grade either, since he would be so sick he could barely hold his quill," Ron responded in jest, which earned him a chuckle from Harry and Ernie, and disapproving mutter from Hermione which sounded suspiciously like "_boys_".

The rest of the class continued on without further incident, though the tingling on Harry's brow had grown into a pounding headache. Wanting to fray his friends' already strained nerves as little as he could manage, he refrained from massaging his forehead. Nonetheless, he could not help casting a glance at the empty seat where Draco usually sat, his eyes darkened into a shade of damp leaves.

By the time class was over, Harry's headache had fortunately receded somewhat into the background. Slinging his school bag onto his shoulder, Harry followed his friends out the door and into the eerily quiet corridor. Even though it was daytime, few students would travel through these dully lit corridors except for potions class students and the Slytherins.

As Harry was about to walk past a narrow corridor, he suddenly caught a glimpse of black fluttering past the corner and vanishing behind the wall, with the accompaniment of rapidly fading footsteps. As instinct took hold of him, Harry immediately gave chase with racing heartbeats, like a moth who had caught sight of the accursed firelight.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice called out from behind Harry in bewilderment. "Where are you going?"

"I got something to do; you guys go on." Harry left behind a vague excuse before heading into the corridor in a hurry, effectively cutting off any further argument Hermione was about to put to him.

Although the torches in the tarnished iron sconces were burning low as though their flame was suppressed by an invisible hand, Harry could faintly discern that what he had seen was the hem of a black robe. And whoever it may be, he or she must have been standing there for some time, or else Harry would have heard the footsteps sooner. Harry had not made up his mind as to what he would do should he catch up with the mystery person; he simply let his impulse be his guide.

When he arrived at a decaying crossroad that was unfamiliar to him, he lost sight of the wisp of evasive black; silence was the only host to greet him. Turning wildly about him like a mouse trapped in a maze, Harry surveyed the three branching paths one by one with rising urgency; he was torn between wanting to move onwards and fearful of losing the only trail he had of the mystery character. And then he heard it -- light footfalls coming from somewhere to his left. Instantly Harry dove into the path where the sound came from.

The footsteps ahead of him were growing ever louder in the narrow, winding corridors, an unspoken testament that he was getting closer to his quarry. And yet, like the spring of the musical box winding itself down, the sound suddenly stopped once more. It was as though the mystery person was playing an elusive game of hide-and-seek with him, taunting him with abrupt, oppressive pauses. Nonetheless, there was only one direction in which Harry could travel, and hurriedly he pressed on.

As he was about to turn a corner, he caught sight of a flash of quick silver and a veil of stifling black. Avoiding the collision with the reflex of a highly strung cat, Harry lost his balance, and ended up having his back slammed painfully against the rugged stone wall. Harry had little time to assess his condition, however, for there was another sharp glint coming at him. Acting purely on instinct, Harry dodged the sailing dagger, and grabbed onto his attacker's forearm. Struggling desperately with his assailant, he slammed his attacker's hand repeatedly against the wall, until the dagger fell onto the floor with a bell-like chime.

Twisting away from Harry with surprising agility, the attacker crouched down to retrieve the dagger; but Harry was prepared for him. Harry kicked the dagger out of the attacker's reach, and recklessly tackled his attacker, toppling him onto the floor. And before Harry knew it, he was straddling his attacker, his hands closed around the attacker's white neck. No thought of any sort came to Harry's chaotic mind except to tighten his grip, to strangle the neck before him like wringing the slender neck of a graceful white swan, until his attacker could no longer flail around and claw at him like a feral beast.

A sharp, burning pain stung his right arm, forcing Harry to yelp and withdraw his hands. Protectively he held his right arm, before blinking away the illusory mist in his eyes. The struggling assailant was gone from his sight, and instead he found himself beholding a pair of kneeling legs wrapped in black trousers. Laboriously inclining his head, he saw a black school robe, beneath which was a half-buttoned white shirt, and finally a face -- it was Draco.

Eyes of the most soothing of grey were gazing at him with something akin to anxiety, before their intensity subsided slightly as they met Harry's bottle green. It might have been a trick of the light, but Harry thought he saw Draco's shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of any other way to wake you up," Draco said unperturbedly as he put his wand away, and reached out as if wanting to grab Harry's arm. Haunted by the sense of panic that was still burning vividly in his mind, Harry unceremoniously slapped Draco's hand away. Leaden grey eyes narrowed; nonetheless Draco dropped his hand without another word.

Unconsciously moving away from Draco, Harry stared at Draco as a trapped game would at a hunter. He was frightened beyond reckoning, for he could no longer tell where reality ended and illusion began, nor could he tell which Draco was real and which Draco sprang from his wild imagination. All the more he was terrified of the murderous impulse plaguing his mind; he had truly wanted to kill Draco in his vision. However, when he recalled all that he had seen last night and all that he had read this morning, the apprehension flowing inside of him transformed into irrational rage.

"What have you been doing? What are you trying to do? Terrorizing the wizarding world? Dumbledore dead? Driving me insane? What is it? And what are you? Are you really Draco Malfoy, or are you someone else pretending to be him?" Harry fired out question after question in a fury.

And yet, despite Harry's tempestuous outburst, Draco remained silent as a mute, his worn visage as unreadable as that of a stone statue. Like pouring oil over a blaze, Draco's refusal to explain himself infuriated Harry even further. Images surfaced before his eyes like a revolving panorama, feeding his starved mind with seeds of distrust: a firelit chamber, a painting of two men hovering over a miniature world, porcelain cup brought to pale lips...

"I saw you last night, dammit!" Harry hissed accusingly, his scar burning as if he was licked by fire; he felt a sudden urge to raise his wand at Draco. "I entered Voldemort's mind last night and I saw you!" Had Harry been sound of mind, he would have been taken aback by his own words; but presently he could barely control himself. "What the hell did you do last night? Meeting with Voldemort and beheading people outside the Ministry? Just like what the Guillotine did years ago?"

Those green irises of Harry's were deepening in colour until they were nearly as black as ink, with a fleeting dash of bruising red. Paranoia and fear gave birth to the primal nature to snarl and strike at the threat before him. Subtle, poisonous whispers were introduced into his deluded mind, words that resonated deeply with the darkest recess of his psyche.

Suddenly, Harry felt Draco's finger drawing a symbol on his forehead, his scar seething with pain as if he was burnt by unyielding ice. Vaguely he heard Draco muttering a string of incantation, but he could not make out the words, for the sound of his rushing blood was flooding his ears. And then, Harry felt his own mouth move in speech, but the unnaturally chilling voice that came out of his mouth was nothing like his own, "I am disappointed in you, Draco. To think you would side with the senile fool Dumbledore."

To the bemusement of both Harry and the other, Draco was chuckling pleasantly, a sound so incongruently melodious in this setting that it sent a shiver down Harry's spine. "I side with no one but myself," Draco said with a smile, silver eyes glowing with blade-like brilliance. "It is for self-interest alone that I wish for your death."

"Is that so?" More soft-spoken words were spat out of Harry's mouth like venom. Firelight began to waver wildly like wisps of smoke battling against the wind, shadows writhing and struggling against the chain that was darkness. "It seems to me you have an _interest _in Harry as well, an interest that is, shall we say, less than innocent?"

"I wonder about that myself." Distantly one could hear the jarring cry of the raven, a sound of mourning accompanying the tolls of the funeral bells. Once more Draco pressed his bleeding fingertip onto Harry's forehead, and replied with a quotation, "'Only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue.'" _(2)_

A sickening sense of disorientation assaulted Harry like thorns; the corrupting murmurs and the pain from before fled in great haste. When the flame lining the walls swayed no more, Draco released his hold on Harry. Blinking several times, Harry absently rubbed his forehead while vaguely aware that his fingertips were wet with Draco's blood.

There was now little doubt in his mind as to the animosity between Draco and Voldemort; Voldemort's malice towards Draco was etched in Harry's mind like a filthy stain that would not be washed away. Did the desire to kill Draco stem from Voldemort and no more? Harry found himself unable to answer.

Although Draco had proven that he was not in league with Voldemort, too much like a chameleon Draco had been that Harry found himself all the more baffled. For every fragment Harry had collected, the picture that was Draco Malfoy changed its form. How much of what Draco had said to him thus far were truths? How many of them were lies?

As though sensing the reservation in Harry, Draco got up from his crouch, his movement strangely lacking in his usual grace. When Harry witnessed the unusually strained expression on Draco's face, every one of his thoughts was scattered like snow.

"Hey, what's wro-" The rest of the sentence died in his mouth when Harry noticed the layer of bandages wrapped around Draco's torso and the splash of red that was ever so slowly spreading outwards. Immediately getting up from the floor, Harry felt as though his heartbeat had stopped dead. "What happened?"

Reflexively Harry reached out in an attempt to steady Draco's faltering figure, but Draco curtly waved him aside, with more force than was necessary. "I won't die from something like this yet."

"That doesn't sound very reassuring," Harry remarked witheringly as he threw an unsettled glance at the white shirt that was slowly tainted with a blot of red, a ghastly imagery of red on white. "You could bleed to death, you know."

A pale eyebrow arched arrogantly. "And why do you care?" Before Harry could even open his mouth to object, Draco briskly cut him off with a fleeting glance at Harry's collar. "Nevermind. You had better be on your guard from now on. Chances are Voldemort had found out about the Blessing already, not to mention that it had always been a tactic of his to stir up discord amongst allies."

Feeling the phantom knife being twisted further into the wound, Harry tensed. It appeared that not only did Draco know about Harry's distrust towards him, he also knew that Harry had taken off the jade amulet. Although intellectually Harry knew it served little purpose to be rebellious, he could not stop the indignation from bubbling to the surface of his mind, bringing with it a spark of defiance. "I'll decide for myself what to think."

Tilting his head curiously, Draco appraised Harry with those knowing grey eyes of his, and whispered softly as though to himself, "That maybe so." And then more loudly Draco added, "When you are ready to listen, I will tell you everything you want to know." Without further ado, Draco walked away into the dusky corridor.

"What do you mean by when I'm ready? Why are you telling me this now?" Harry called out to Draco, his mind a confusing tangle of convoluted knots. "What makes you think I would believe a word you say after all the bloody riddles you've been throwing at me?"

"I don't. Whether you believe me or not is entirely up to you." Not once turning back or halting his steps, Draco ever so slowly melted into the shadow, like a wayward son returning to the embrace of the parent that was the gluttonous chaos.

And Harry could only stare at the swirling darkness where Draco had vanished into, pondering about what Draco had said. The precious golden key of truth was what Draco was willing to entrust to him; ought he take it? And yet, he felt not an ounce of relief over Draco's proposal, for his mind was filled with the uncanny vision that was haunting him still. Clenching his fist tightly and desperately, Harry willed himself to exorcise the unnervingly realistic sensation of hands wrapped around ghostly neck.

The cogs of time and space span in synchrony as Draco, wearily leaning against the silent, featureless wall, lightly clutched his throat with his hand as though in morbid remembrance.

* * *

Days flowed by in peaceful languor within Hogwarts after the return of the headmaster. And yet, to a knowing few, such fragile tranquillity was no more than the calm before the storm. Ill-boding premonition was ever humming beyond the consciousness like a string of white noise. As if in assent, the weather took a turn for the bitterly cold. The earth, blanketed with sparkling snow, became a frozen land filled with deathly silence, the world transformed into its own desolate graveyard.

Despite the chill permeating the air within Hogwarts, Draco was none too bothered by it. Many things were weighing in his mind as he recovered from his injuries, none more so than the constant ache in his chest where the scar from his past resided.

In the confines of the solemn library, soft murmurs could be heard in the background, a constant buzz that accompanied the scratching of quills upon parchment and the rustling of crisp pages being turned. Sitting in a discreet corner where he was shielded from view, Draco leafed through a heavy volume on human Transfiguration. It was a strange comfort to immerse himself in his studies, for it granted him the freedom to slip into his student persona, and to ignore everything else around him if only for a transient moment.

The library had always been his secret garden of Eden, and books the forbidden fruits from the Tree of Knowledge. Such sentiment he had always shared with his Salome, who possessed a hunger for books like a fey child who had long been confined in a gilded cage. This near obsession of hers could only be rivalled by her passion for music.

The wheel of time could only turn forward without pause; and yet, so vividly still could he remember her: flowing raven tresses trailing past a slender waist; fair unblemished skin colder than the winter moon; shapely red lips of the brightest of crimson; and an elaborate gown of dark emerald enveloping a delicate figure. Such dignity and elegance she had held herself, and yet those haunting green pupils of hers were wild with a violent tempest refusing to be suppressed. In his mind's eye, age had never left a mark upon her; she was the same proud yet fragile creature he had beheld in century past. A name he had not spoken of for years was rolling at the tip of his tongue, like a whiff of fragrance lingering about the chamber of the departed lady.

A hesitant footstep shook him out of his reverie. Drawn by the sound, he looked upon the youthful face of a bespectacled boy of sixteen with dark, unruly hair and a pair of forest green eyes. For a heartbeat he pondered about the boy, before a name at last came to him.

"What is it, Potter?" Draco asked quietly while closing the book before him with a soft thud, for his concentration was clearly ebbing away.

Wearing a small frown over his brow, Harry took a second to reorient himself, and stifled his curiosity for the moment. "Can we talk?"

It took but a beat for Draco to gather his things and accompany Harry to the double door. In mutual silence the two boys started off into the firelit corridor, where stares and whispers from their peers greeted them. Draco remained unmindful of the attention they had garnered, while Harry tried to ignore the growing sense of inquisitiveness in him.

Draco had uttered the name _Christabel_ in the library. Like a crow who had caught sight of a shiny coin, Harry found himself unable to banish the name out of his mind. He felt for certain that he had encountered the name not too long ago, and yet for the like of him, he could not recollect the source. Although Harry had every mind to inquire Draco about the name, some unknown force made him hold his tongue, as though the name was a taboo he ought not to breach before Draco.

Soon the two former rivals arrived at the deserted tower, where not even the golden glow of firelight could entirely dispel the air of despondence. Climbing the circular stone staircase adorned with black banisters of simple yet elegant design, Draco halted on the landing where one could see the stained glass window depicting the tormented Prometheus. Standing beside the still figure of Draco, Harry lightly gripped onto the railings, and raised his head to regard the vaulted roof that was shrouded in semi-darkness. Remembering a certain prison-like tower haunted by dismembered voices and watchful gazes, Harry felt a shudder running down his spine.

Speculatively Draco threw a sidelong glance at Harry's troubled profile, and asked, "What do you want?"

Swallowing the reflexive retort that was about to flow out of his mouth, Harry took a meditative breath, and replied, "You said you'll tell me everything I wanted to know, right? There's something I need to know now." Hard green eyes stared fixedly upon Draco's pallid visage. "Did you attack Dumbledore?"

Ashen grey eyes gazed straight ahead at the opalescence of the stained glass glimmering dully beyond their reach. After a beat Draco answered placidly as if he was speaking about matter of little concern to him, "Yes, I did."

Deliberately Harry drew in a breath to ease his agitation and dismay over Draco's candid admission, for he was here for answers, not further arguments that would lead him into another endless loop of doubt. "Did-" instinctively Harry paused, "did Grindelwald order you to do it?"

"It was hardly an order," Draco said evenly as he met Harry's harsh eyes. "Suffice to say, I was acting on Grindelwald's behalf."

Unsettled by Draco's remark, Harry chewed on his lips, and took his time to digest the information Draco had imparted. When he unconsciously looked downwards at the dreary ground framed by a monochrome spiral of intricate stone steps, he recalled the sense of wrongness he had felt concerning the duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

"Something doesn't make sense," Harry said, a frown wormed its way onto his forehead. "If Grindelwald wanted Dumbledore dead, why didn't he do it himself when he possessed you on Hallowe'en?"

"It was not his intention to kill Dumbledore then," Draco replied neutrally, his gaze lingered once more upon the fractured glass window. "The duel with Dumbledore was no more than a feint to lecture me on lesser known dark curses."

Shocked though Harry was by Draco's unexpected answer to the riddle, the peculiar manner in which Draco phrased his response did not escape Harry's ear. "You said _then_. Did he want to kill Dumbledore in the end after all?" Harry asked tentatively, all the while fearful of the answer to his query.

"In his own words: _such was the exquisite and accursed thread that binds a man to his friend and foe_." Draco paused for several heartbeats as Harry took in the puzzling statement. "Put it this way, Grindelwald is a possessive man. If something is marked as his, and that something is about to be taken from him, he would stop at nothing to prevent others from robbing him of it."

With his brows knitted into an uncomprehending knot, Harry attempted to decipher the hidden meaning therein. "By others, you mean Voldemort and the Death Eaters, right?" To which Draco nodded in assent. "Voldemort wants to get rid of Dumbledore, that's obvious. What you are saying is that Grindelwald would rather kill Dumbledore himself than to let Voldemort do it? But that's insane!"

"Aren't we all?" Cool as silver was Draco's voice as he uttered those words; lucid eyes held Harry in their pensive gaze, a gaze Harry dared not meet.

As Harry recalled the supposed invisible mark Grindelwald had placed upon him that afternoon when he had first beheld Grindelwald, he could not help wiping his mouth compulsively. Surely Grindelwald had no interest in him beyond using him as a decoy to lure Dumbledore out? Draco was helping Harry solely because of the Blessing, and not because of Grindelwald; even Grindelwald had admitted his astonishment that Harry was granted the Blessing by Abraxas Malfoy. And yet, why did Harry have a remote feeling that he had made a grave oversight?

Some seconds of silence had passed before Harry finally mustered up the courage to look at Draco, who had dropped his gaze to stare at the ground below. Bottle green eyes lingered over Draco's tilted head, before flitting to the neck accented by the blackness of the robe and the whiteness of the shirt collar. So morbidly fascinating were the sharp contrast of colour and the graceful curve where neck and shoulder met, that Harry found himself thoroughly transfixed by the sight before him. A most powerful urge was aroused in him, an impulse propelling him to reach out and wrap his hands around that pale neck of Draco's. As reason came to a halt, he mused distantly if those grey eyes of Draco's would be as glassy as those of a doll were he to snap off the strings that were holding Draco together as a lifeless marionette was.

Abruptly startled out of his macabre reverie by a cold draught fluttering against his cheek, Harry tore his eyes away from Draco, his back drenched in cold sweat and his pulse racing in discord; it was fortunate that Draco appeared oblivious to the disturbance in him. Disconcertingly Harry pondered if he was under Voldemort's corrupted influence still, or if it was his own delirious self which he had nearly succumbed to.

_No,_ Harry shook his head vigorously to ward off his disquieting brooding, _this is not the time to think about something like this_. Remembering his other purpose for seeking Draco out, Harry rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a thin silver chain, the end of which hung a jade pendant carved into the shape of a bird ready to take flight. Averting his eyes, Harry resolutely held it out for Draco to take, and said, "I should probably return this, since it looks like you might need it more than I do."

Eyes of liquid silver flickered briefly at the amulet dangling from Harry's outstretched hand, before gracing Harry with a scrutinizing gaze. Nonetheless, Harry was afraid to look at Draco lest he felt the same troubling impulse once more. Moments later, Draco took the pendant, and pulled the silver chain out of Harry's hand; the necklace slithered out of Harry's grasp like quick sand slipping through his fingers.

With a keen eye Draco examined the flawlessly shaped amulet, the coolness radiating from the unmoving bird felt like warmth when Draco held it in his deathly cold hand. Suppressing the sliver of unwanted emotions that were pressing against his chest like the tip of a dagger, Draco took two steps backwards, held out the ends of the necklace, and passed it over Harry's head.

Noticing an object suddenly flitting into his line of sight, Harry bowed his head to see the amulet resting right where it had once belonged. Violently snapping his head around to regard Draco, Harry was about to blurt out a query when he was nudged gently yet firmly by Draco to face forward. Knowing better than to argue with Draco, Harry grudgingly stared ahead at the gruesome scenery made of glass hovering on the opposite shore, allowing Draco to secure the clasp of the necklace.

"I don't take back the things I gave out," was all Draco said before he let go of the chain, letting the pendant bounced harmlessly against Harry's chest.

A smile was tugging at the corner of Harry's lips, for those haughty words were so much in character with the one who uttered them. Dangling once more before his chest, the amulet was pulsating comfortingly to Harry's heartbeat, as though the two beings shared a single heart.

"Then you'd better not die on me," Harry said dryly as he wheeled around to look at Draco.

A pale eyebrow was raised questioningly, though there was a hint of amusement in Draco's voice. "I shall do the best I can." Draco looked as though he wanted to say more, but as soon as he caught sight of a sweeping figure emerging from the corridor beyond the tower, his expression became closed like a book.

When Harry noticed the subtle change in Draco, he searched around for the source, and came upon Dumbledore who was swiftly striding for the stairs. For one nervous moment Harry thought Dumbledore was here to apprehend Draco, before he reasoned that if Dumbledore had any inclination to arrest Draco, he would have done so already.

As curiosity warred with wariness, Harry descended the stairs with Draco trailing after him like a shadow. Meeting halfway upon the spiral staircase, Dumbledore alternated his gaze between Harry and Draco, a small smile briefly gracing upon his face. Privately Harry marvelled at the unassuming composure both Draco and Dumbledore displayed at what would be an uncomfortable meeting between the headmaster who was attacked and the student who attacked him.

"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore spoke genially, before his expression became grave, as if a dark cloud was hanging over him. With a sinking feeling, Harry knew something must be seriously wrong indeed. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I need to speak with Draco immediately."

Surmising that Dumbledore wished to speak with Draco alone, Harry decided to take his leave. "Eh, I'll be going then." And yet, not even a step had Harry taken before his arm was seized by Draco. Confused by Draco's action, Harry stared at Draco, who did not look at him.

"It's fine, you might as well hear this too," Draco uttered plainly, his eyes fixated squarely on Dumbledore. Upon Draco's ghostly pallid face was a look of impending moroseness as though a storm was raging on the horizon.

As though a drop of ink had been spilled into those azure eyes of Dumbledore's, those pupils that had captured the deep blue sky in their depths darkened ever so slightly. Slowly and quietly as if afraid of waking the dead, Dumbledore spoke to Draco, "Your father has escaped from Azkaban."

Upon hearing the unexpected news, Harry whipped his head around in disbelief to regard Draco, whose expression became so inhumanly cold that Harry felt a chill coursing through his veins and freezing his core. Those twin pools of mercury were tinted with piercing frost liken to the silver blade of the scythe wielded by the robed figure that was Death.

_"Human beings are creatures of habits -- they never learn. This is the very reason why history can only repeat itself in a never-ending spiral, its captives doomed to revolve for eternity without rest in this lavish banquet of human vice."_

_

* * *

_

To be continued...

1. The Morrigan is a goddess of battle, strife, and fertility in Celtic mythology, sometimes appears in the guise of a crow. The Morrigan may also refer to a trio of goddesses.

2. A line from Henry James' novella, _The Turn of the Screw_.

A/N: An early Happy Hallowe'en! I know there are lots of information to digest in this chapter; and if you've made it to this point, congratulation! And thank you very much for reading, and a further thank you to those people who have reviewed my stories.


	8. Interlude

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The poem _On Death_ belongs to Percy Bysshe Shelley.

A/N: A moment of respite and introspection before the storm.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Interlude: "Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?" (1)_

Within the silent chamber where the only light to be had was the golden flame swaying dignifiedly on the hearth, two figures were seated on the armchairs before the fireplace, the solemn air of introspection looming over them like the shadows that were dancing a courtly dance upon the stone floor.

After he replaced the bone china teacup onto the saucer atop the table, Dumbledore leant wearily into the embrace of the armchair, and observed his former pupil, who touched not once the cup of Earl Grey tea served to him. At length, Dumbledore returned his azure gaze to the mantelpiece where two silver-framed photographs comprised of the entirety of the decorative display. One of the photographs was of his long since fractured family; the other was of his best friend and himself in the summer of their youth that was no more.

Willing himself away from the lure of the endless well of reminiscence, Dumbledore uttered quietly to his companion, "Thank you very much for everything you have done, Severus. Recent events must have brought back unpleasant memories for you."

Inclining his head to regard the headmaster fully, Snape coolly replied, "Had I wished to act otherwise, I would do so, regardless of your indirect probing or Mr Malfoy's subtle threats."

Amused by Snape's obstinate claim, Dumbledore chuckled, and then in a markedly sombre tone, he asked, "Did you manage to find out about what had taken place during Draco's meeting with Voldemort?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Resting his elbow on the wooden armrest, Snape cradled his chin in his palm. "Apparently soon after Mr Malfoy arrived, Beddoes grew particularly agitated. After several unsuccessful attempts to calm him down, the guard was about to restrain him when Beddoes suddenly attacked him. With the wand he had stolen from the guard, he escaped from where he was imprisoned, killed two more people in the process, and then was killed in turn."

Narrowed dark eyes squinted into the glaring light as though in meditation; the quiet voice bespoke of control and restraint continued its narration. "At the same time, there was a commotion coming from the drawing room where the meeting took place. By the time the other Death Eaters arrived, they saw the Dark Lord engaging in a duel with Mr Malfoy. Figuring that he could not win against many, Mr Malfoy blasted the window apart and escaped. That is all I could extract from the Death Eaters who were present at the time."

"I see." Putting his fingertips together in contemplation, Dumbledore bowed his head gravely, his brow lined with troubled wrinkles that were all the more pronounced beneath the poor lighting. "Draco had obviously placed a suggestion in Beddoes' head, which would be triggered by his presence, hence creating a diversion. In that regard, he might have already surpassed Augustus' vision."

Black eyes flickered unsettlingly at the peculiar remark. "Headmaster, allow me to be frank. It sounds as though Grindelwald had delved into the subject of mind manipulation in the past."

"Indeed he had," Dumbledore answered distantly as his mind escaped from the binding of the present and ventured into the cruel, unchanging past. "He was not only interested in the mystery of the dead, but also the mystery of the mind. In fact, he invented a curse that would drive a person to the brink of madness. Although, I don't believe he had given a name to his invention; and the curse itself was largely unknown in the wizarding world. From what you have told me, however, this is most likely the curse that drove Beddoes mad."

A note of unfinished remark hung apprehensively in the air, but Dumbledore would say no more. Finding his voice again amidst the abrupt silence, he inquired, "What has become of Voldemort?"

"He is furious, but at the same time, he has taken an even greater interest in Mr Malfoy. His injury is serious, though not to the point of life-threatening. The wound on his neck is, regrettably, more shallow than expected." At that Snape paused, his half-veiled pupils flashing in discomfort, the only overt sign that he was ill at ease.

Dumbledore spoke no words, his figure still as a rock as he gazed into the crackling fire that was at once glorious and deadly. Twice the headmaster himself had managed to survive beneath the scythe of Death in the form of the beheading curse, would there be a third? Was his former friend trying to lead Draco down the destructive path he once trod upon?

At length, Snape's voice rang out once more in the chamber. "Suffice it to say, Mr Malfoy certainly succeeded in drawing the Dark Lord's attention away from Potter and onto himself. If Mr Malfoy indeed possesses whatever knowledge the Dark Lord greatly desires, the Dark Lord will very likely use Potter as bait, now that he knows Potter is being placed under the protection of the Malfoys."

"Yes, it will be problematic indeed," Dumbledore said distantly, before urging himself away from his dark brooding and changing the subject. "What do you suppose Lucius is after by escaping from Azkaban?"

Lowering his hand and lightly gripping the armrest, Snape took his time to reply. "Revenge could be one; the Blessed one could be the other."

Keen blue eyes appraised him with the shrewdness of an owl. "But you believe otherwise." To which Snape offered no reply.

The Guillotine, the Blessing, the cursed bloodline, the forbidden art of necromancy, the pact with the dead, and the youth who was thrust into the eye of this catastrophic whirlwind -- like the gruesome play of the infamous Grand Guignol, everything was spiralling rapidly downwards to its violent finish.

* * *

The Gryffindor common-room was warm and cosy as always, a welcoming haven for young souls who had gone through a trying day filled with schoolwork and various worries. The atmosphere within the tower conveyed such gentle comfort that it gave off an impression of an inviting home. Gryffindors both young and old were enjoying their well-earned break from their studies; and congregated in a corner of the common-room, Harry and Ron were doing their homework under Hermione's stern guidance.

While he read through the text in search of information, Harry absentmindedly fiddled with the pendant beneath his shirt. Aeons it had seemed since he learnt whom the pendant originally belonged to, and many aeons more since he was first given the amulet. Even knowing Lucius Malfoy was the previous owner, now Harry felt little more than a sense of detachment. What did it matter anyway? He was not Lucius Malfoy, and Lucius Malfoy was not him.

Abruptly he was reminded of McLaggen, without whom he might not have been able to find out about the origin of the jade pendant in the first place. So preoccupied he had been lately that he had quite forgotten about the unfortunate incident atop the staircase, nor had he found out what became of McLaggen after the _accident_.

"Say," Harry began offhandedly as curiosity intruded into his head and refused to be pacified, "do you know what happened to McLaggen afterwards?"

At the mention of the culprit who had supposedly pushed Harry off the stairs, Ron scowled unpleasantly, for he recalled at once the quarrel between him and Harry over the issue of Draco Malfoy. Despite Harry's claim of the contrary, Ron was not about to abandon his perception of the arrogant, snide, and scheming brat that was Draco Malfoy.

It was left to the ever sensible Hermione to provide the answer and satisfy Harry's inquisitiveness. "His parents took him home. I've heard they had filed a complaints to the school governors."

"Ha, as if we don't have enough stuff on our plates as it is," Ron snorted loudly. "Don't think they'll have time to deal with petty stuff like this anyway, not when Hogwarts might turn into a battlefield any time soon. And by the way, why are we studying for our exams again?" Distastefully he picked up his potions textbook by the cover, as though it was drenched in poison.

Before Hermione could utter her well-rehearsed speech on the responsibilities of a student, Harry interjected, "I guess keeping to our normal routine is a way to fight the Death Eaters, to let them know that we aren't panicking over what's happening outside."

"I was actually going to say something else, but Harry has a point." Notorious for being difficult to please, Hermione nevertheless seemed impressed by Harry's notion.

"Well, my normal routine is to laze around, so I'll do just that." Feigning great relief, Ron threw down his book on the table with a thud, upsetting Hermione's neatly stacked notes.

Glaring at Ron with half-hearted displeasure, Hermione retaliated with a perfectly innocent look on her face, "And since my normal routine is to force you to study, I shall begin with that."

Lightly Harry chuckled at the usual antics of his two best friends, before his pleasant mood was disturbed by a lurch in his stomach that was ever rippling outwards to the rest of his body. A sense of presentiment stealthily crawled into his heart like a cold-blooded serpent, whispering to him that such tranquil moment would soon come to pass as no more than precious memories. The sunlit, aqueous sphere that was his world was swiftly evolving into a shape beyond his control and his imagining; it was all he could do to hold onto the fleeting moment of respite that was slipping away from his grasp like fine sand in an hourglass.

And yet, it was not Draco who was at fault; it was Harry himself whom he could no longer trust.

* * *

Outside the Gryffindor tower entrance where not but a soul could be seen, Draco stood dutifully by the portrait depicting a plumb lady in pink, his back against the harsh stone wall, his silver gaze staring unseeingly into a distance. The corridor was draughty with naught but a single burning torch to ward off the chill, but Draco did not seem bothered by the cold.

Turning slightly sideways so that Draco would enter her line of sight, the Fat Lady regarded Draco with sympathy. She had seen him loitering in the corridor leading to the Gryffindor tower for many a night, even once letting him into the tower when he insisted there was an emergency. Nonetheless, every time she asked if he was looking for someone, he would firmly deny it.

A foolish move though it seemed to her, she found it productive to at least chase away the stifling, gloomy silence of winter permeating the corridor like a haunting poltergeist. "Are you looking for someone, dear?" she asked kindly. "Should I go and inform them for you?"

"No, I'm fine. But thank you for your concern." Immaculate was Draco's manner that the Fat Lady felt as if she was conversing to an ancient, jaded soul far beyond the years his appearance dictated. And yet, she felt neither troubled nor in awe, for she herself was a creation composed of centuries of unspeakable history. "I shall not impose my presence on you any further. Goodnight."

And with that Draco went on his way, all the while aware of the Fat Lady's sincere, pitying gaze upon him until he rounded a corner and vanished out of sight. Like a leopard happening upon a trail, he effortlessly prowled through the dark, empty corridors of the maze that was Hogwarts, his movement losing none of his usual grace despite his recent injury. As his mind began to wander, Grindelwald's soothing voice liken to that of an infamous tempter echoed teasingly in his ear.

_"To be able to summon three spirits at once is indeed a remarkable feat. There is certainly more to you than meet the eye, even though you seem to have no knowledge of it. What say you then? Will the truth set you free, or will it condemn you to the lowest of hell?"_

Stricken by a sudden assault of pain, Draco leant unsteadily against the wall for support, his hand clutching his chest tightly. Like needles the sensation of pain pricked at his body without mercy, slowly but surely tearing the walls that were his will apart until he was left with nothing but his naked soul, his five-year-old self who had tasted the ultimate form of betrayal. As if stabbed by an invisible knife, a sharp, biting pain seethed into his chest where his heart dwelt, but stubbornly he bit back his scream. Promptly withdrawing his hand, he found himself beholding nothing but red on his palm, like a bold crimson flower whose petals had dissolved into millions of scarlet tears.

* * *

_To be continued..._

1. Chapter title comes from Percy Bysshe Shelley's poem, _On Death._

A/N: It's been awhile. I really miss writing the Gryffindor trio scenes. I've been thinking of changing the format of my update a bit. Instead of posting one huge chapter every half a year, I'll post shorter chapters, but the update will be more frequent. The decision comes partially from the realization that _Ravens_ will be much longer in length than I have originally planned. Rest assured that everything has been planned out already, so I doubt it'll pose much of a problem. Thank you very much for your patience.


	9. Part III

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Dark themes, disturbing imagery, and violence.

**Ravens Cry in Dissonance**

_Part III: Danse Macabre_

The stretch of green was of the lush summer hue; the blanket of blue was of the vast, boundless canvas that was at once near and far. Underneath the generous shade of the juniper tree, he was half-leaning, half-reclining against the trunk with a book on his lap. But he was not reading, for the soft summer breeze was enticing him to close his eyes and allow himself be carried away to his slumber.

With a start, he snapped open his eyes, only to find them drooping ever so slowly once more. Vigorously shaking his head, he willed himself to stay awake, and continued reading the printed text on the pages. Nevertheless, words were beginning to fuse together into a gibberish of letters.

Filtered by the curtains of lustrous leaves, the fair sunlight was comfortingly warm. A gentle breeze fluttered onto his cheeks, bringing along the sweet scent of jasmine, a fragrance that was so much like the scent of his mother's fair tresses. The rustling of the leaves whispered half-forgotten lullabies to his ear. Unable to resist the siren's call of sleep anymore, he closed his eyes, and let his mind drift away into the world of dreams.

Half-aware of a soft rustle near where he laid, he cracked open one drowsy grey eye, wondering if his father had come to see the progress of his study. However, the tall shadow-like figure looming over him did not possess the haughty bearing of his father, nor the slender elegance of his mother. It was a stranger enveloped in a stained travelling cloak liken to tattered wings, a hunching figure looming over him like a monstrous vulture, with a face so twisted amidst the violent interplay of loathing and madness that it no longer resembled human to his young eyes.

Overflowing terror filled his untried heart as he stared at the stranger, the very vision of a fell beast taking the form of a human. Driven by pure instinct, he tried to scramble away from this horrid nightmare, but it was too late. Everlasting darkness embraced his small figure, binding him into its impregnable folds.

Memories of childhood bliss became remote dreams that were no longer. Reality transformed into an inescapable delirium of white suffocation and scarlet agony, and claustrophobic darkness became his only companion. The only fragile thread of sanity he could desperately cling onto was the stranger's harsh, accusing voice that pierced ruthlessly into his mind like a knife. "Your father did terrible things to my family; that's why I will return the favour and do the same to his. Let's see who will break first: you or your dear father."

After that, not even the voice of the stranger could pull him out of the grotesque hell that was this cursed world. Looking into the disorienting kaleidoscope of fragmented hallucination, he saw flashes of the ashen grey sky, the tear-stricken face of a beautiful woman who was his mother, and another face, a visage so fascinatingly hideous yet coldly handsome. Stern eyes of the same colour as the overcast sky gazed deeply into his, and then they metamorphosed into a silver dagger glinting with deadly glow.

The voice of his murderer, at once frozen by winter frost and gentle as summer breeze, trickled into his ears in inevitable finality. "I will not ask for forgiveness, Draco." --

The beating of wings and a hoarse calling from above drew him away from the vivid vision in the hidden recess of his mind. When Draco Malfoy opened his eyes to the present time once more, his pupils were clear and profound as the cloudless sky in the winter night; the turmoil swirling inside of him touched not a spark of those liquid silver orbs.

Sitting on the ground with one leg stretched out before him, he swept his gaze across the draughty, secluded Owlery where hundreds of owls began to stir from their peaceful slumber, while beyond the windowless openings, the dimming pallid sky bled a tempestuous red. Against the backdrop of the vermilion sky, a raven perched placidly on the crude stonework protruded from the wall, its head cocked curiously towards the human intruder.

In silent command Draco extended his arm, and the raven compliantly flew across the tower, like a loyal servant throwing himself before his master's feet. Narrowed grey eyes tinted with gold contemplated those gleaming dark eyes for several tense heartbeats, before a smile of satisfaction slowly crept onto Draco's bloodless lips.

"It seems they are well hidden, but not well enough," he whispered to the raven, the morbidly serene smile never once left his face. "Alas, the cursed bloodline will have to wait for the moment. Still, it is only polite to send my greeting, don't you think?" To which the raven spoke no reply.

Unhurriedly Draco got up from the floor, with the raven perching on his shoulder, its form still as a statue. In one smooth movement, he pulled out the dagger concealed in his sleeve, and made a small nick on his fingertip. After the dagger vanished once more out of sight, a deathly white hand lightly stroked the bird's motionless figure, before plucking out a black feather from one of its wings. With ceremony Draco held his bleeding finger over the feather, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the silken feather. Words of incantation flowed easily out of his mouth, ever so intricately binding his spell onto the spoilt feather.

As though their animalistic instinct had detected the working of forbidden curses, the owls in the tower cried and fidgeted in distress, but Draco took them no heed for the moment. Holding the feather before him, he breathed life into it. As if his breath was tinged with acid, the feather disintegrated into nothingness before his eyes.

"There is no reason for alarm," he spoke mildly to the restless owls, his voice as soothing as an affectionate caress over ruffled wings. "It was nothing more than a little mischief. Yes, little more than a simple mischief." His words cast a spell over the Owlery, and the commotion at last died away into whispers and murmurs.

A croak from the raven informed Draco of a presence fast ascending the worn stone staircase beyond the archway. After receiving a nod of approval from Draco, the raven spread its wings of midnight black, and took flight into the swiftly darkening sky. Like a chameleon reluctant to be seen, Draco melted into the shadow, and waited patiently for the arrival of the unwitting invader.

Several beats passed by in languid motion, before a lithe figure nimbly stepped across the threshold and onto the landing; the fluid agility liken to that of a dancing flame could only have belonged to one person. Wary green eyes scanned the surrounding around him, but they could not penetrate through the shadow that shrouded Draco like a cloak. At length the figure prowled over to where a snowy owl sat conspicuously amidst its fellow companions.

"Hi, Hedwig," the figure coaxed the owl while extracting a sealed letter from the pocket of his black robe. "Can you take this to Remus Lupin for me? Be careful not to let anyone else see you, since it's getting dangerous out there." When the owl named Hedwig let out a cooing sound in response, the figure tied the letter onto Hedwig's talons. "Come back quickly, alright?"

Suddenly the figure tensed, as though he had at last detected the foreign presence in the tower. With practiced ease, he whirled around with his wand drawn, only to find the tip of his wand aiming at Draco Malfoy, who had stepped forward into the light. Immediately the wand was lowered.

"Do you enjoy scaring people like this?" Harry Potter let out a nervous breath he had been unconsciously holding, and put away his wand. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to leave," was all Draco would say to Harry; there was neither any need nor any reason to divulge to Harry about the details of his movement. As expected Harry frowned at the vague reply, but he inquired about it no more.

For some moment Harry studied the boy standing before him. The ghostly translucency of Draco's face brought a peculiar pang in his chest. The unfathomable blackness of the robe accented Draco's pallor horribly as if Death had already laid a claim on his life.

Tentatively Harry asked, unable to keep the note of concern from seeping into his voice, "How are you feeling?"

Preternaturally perceptive as Draco always was, he had no difficulty detecting the words that were left unsaid. "I have been better," Draco spoke quietly, his pale visage betraying none of his innermost thoughts.

Harry could not help but wonder at the truth behind Draco's response. While injury done unto the body could be healed, wounds that were invisible to the naked eye could be all the more deadly. After being informed of Lucius Malfoy's escape, Draco seemed inhumanly aloof save for that one instance Harry had witnessed on the spiral staircase. And yet, Harry had a feeling that the news affected Draco much more than he let on. The conflict between Draco and his father was one topic Harry had been curious about, but he dared not breach it lest he appeared invasive. Still, he could not bring himself to leave Draco be.

Turning his back on Draco under the pretence of checking the knot he had tied around Hedwig's leg, Harry said, "If you didn't know already, the _Daily Prophet_ ran a story about your father this morning. Needless to say, some people aren't very happy about it."

Unbeknownst to him, Draco raised an eyebrow at the unsurprising news, an arrogant gesture befitting of one who was walking upon a road neither light nor dark. "Weasley, for one?" Draco uttered slowly, his voice tinted with the faintest sliver of condescension.

Indignation trickled into Harry's mind like poison; it took some effort on his part to refrain from hailing out a scathing remark at Draco. Taking a deliberate deep breath, Harry began anew in a calm tone, "I admit Ron is hotheaded, but he's still my best friend."

"If you are worried that Weasley and I will end up in a fight, there is no need," Draco replied while peering out the window with an absentminded look on his face.

"Really? You could fool me." A note of sarcasm crept into Harry's voice. Feeling a need to keep his hands occupied, he mechanically ran his hand over Hedwig's feathers, a gesture that helped soothe away his own restlessness. "You aren't helping by provoking him at every turn."

The momentary pause lengthened into prolonged silence, at times punctured by the mumbles of the owls. When one of the owls stretched out its wings and flew into the twilight, Draco finally spoke in a barely audible whisper, "I might have agreed to tell you what you wanted to know, but don't you think you are meddling too much into my affairs? It's a nuisance."

Quick as a leopard, Harry spun around to face Draco; but the velvety silhouette of the enigmatic boy was no longer there. In exchange, a cold draught came rushing into the Owlery, whipping at Harry's face and ebony hair in mock scolding.

* * *

Amber candlelight burnt steadily within the enclosed Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, creating a halo of flame around the raised platform at the centre of the room. It illuminated the two duellists battling on the stage but little else. The rest of the students, be they waiting nervously for their turn to be tested or bemoaning their test results, hung back in the shadow. And Snape, sitting on a chair beyond the reach of the circular light, observed everything that was happening on the platform with the keen eye of a hawk.

Leaning against the wall with Hermione and Ron on either side of him, Harry watched the ongoing duel distractedly, before his eyes were led astray to the lone figure standing on the opposite side of the chamber. Even though he could not see the face, he could sense mercurial eyes flickering briefly towards him before turning away. A wave of irrational indignation was risen in Harry's heart at the overt evasion. Despite his sullen temper, however, he noticed his fellow classmates had given Draco a wide berth, while the other Slytherins were huddling a little away from Draco, as if fearful of disturbing his thoughts.

Having discerned to whom his gaze was directed at, Hermione whispered to Harry in a low voice, "I wonder who will Snape pair Malfoy with. Considering how good Malfoy is, most people here wouldn't stand a chance against him."

In truth, Harry had been wondering about that as well. If Draco had managed to survive his encounter with the Dark Lord all by himself, then a test such as this would be like child's play to him. Even with enforced rules, Draco still possessed a natural advantage over everyone else, especially considering who his mentor was.

"Knowing Snape though, he might actually pair Malfoy up with you." Hermione's voice interjected on his musing, prompting Harry to look at her in disquietude.

Harry could barely remember the last time he actually fought with Draco. The past dispute between him and Draco seemed petty now that he was given a glimpse of what lay behind those deceptive masks of Draco's.

"Good, he'll get his just dessert soon," Ron, who had overheard Hermione's remark, said spitefully and stared straight into Harry's eyes. "Don't you dare go easy on him, Harry."

Words of retort were rolling at the tip of Harry's tongue, but he willed himself to bite back those words that would undoubtedly spark another quarrel.

"Enough." Snape's authoritative voice cut through the air like a scythe, and the two students on the platform immediately ceased their duel. Quick as a pair of hunted deer, the two stepped off the stage, obviously relieved that the test was over. "Next, Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley."

Murmurs of disbelief and excitement were buzzing in the classroom as if a swarm of flies were feasting upon dead flesh. The wilful decision of the Head of Slytherin House to pit Ron against his sworn enemy, whom he had threatened with grievous injury, puzzled many. Nearly every head was turned to regard Ron, who appeared as surprised and bewildered as his fellow classmates.

Nonetheless, Harry was not looking at his friend; instead, he was staring intently at the figure who was slowly emerging from the shadow. Nearby candles cast a golden glow over Draco's stoic visage that was like a mask in a theatrical play. There was little doubt in Harry's mind that Draco was the mastermind behind this curious arrangement. And yet, his motive eluded Harry like a wisp of illusory smoke refusing to be captured. Was this Draco's response to Harry's well-meaning warning in the Owlery?

After several long seconds, Harry finally heard Ron speaking through gritted teeth, "Perfect, I've been wanting to hex him for a long time." And with that, Ron pushed himself away from the wall, and strolled over to the platform where his opponent quietly awaited.

All eyes were transfixed upon the raised stage; but the two duellists ignored the audience, opting to study the other warily. Those profound silver eyes of Draco's were trained upon Ron in cool appraisal; Ron's deep blue pupils glared at his arch-nemesis with burning detestation. Being one of the spectators in the crowd, Harry could do nothing but watch in silence. Standing beside him, Hermione chewed on her bottom lip in barely suppressed anxiety.

"You know the rule. One Unforgivable and you will be expelled." Snape's dispassionate voice rang through the classroom, silencing every chatter in the chamber. "You may begin."

The duellists faced each other on the candlelit stage, not bothering to exercise the courtesy usually displayed to their opponent before a duel. Without warning, Ron was hit by a flash of red light, and was bodily thrown backwards onto the ground. So sudden and swift was the attack that it elicited a collective gasp from the audience and a strangled cry from Hermione.

No one save Snape and Harry had been able to see Draco drew out his wand and launched his initial assault. Draco's unexpected display of agility left Harry feeling breathless; it was like gazing at a masterpiece that one wanted to at once admire and break. Swallowing hard to moisten his dry throat, Harry found himself unable to tear his eyes off of him.

"A duel is not a gentleman's sport," Draco spoke patronizingly as Ron struggled to pick himself up. "Any scheme or trick is allowed, even encouraged." Such was the only breathing space he would grant Ron before throwing another spell at him.

Remaining in his crouching position, Ron immediately deflected the curse, and then muttered darkly, "Shut up," before firing a curse of his own, buying himself a fleeting moment to gather his wit and stand up.

With practiced ease Draco directed Ron's curse back at its caster, forcing Ron to quickly dodge aside. The curse hit the invisible ward set around the platform instead and sizzled into nothingness. Despite his effort being thwarted, Draco seemed unsettlingly pleased by the development.

"Good, it would have been boring to fight someone who is kneeling on his knees." Draco's provocative remark sparked mirthful chuckles from the Slytherins and angry protests from the Gryffindors.

While a part of Harry felt the same aggravation as his fellow Gryffindors did, his vivid green eyes followed Draco's every movement like a crow being mesmerized by a sparkling coin. With an unnerving start, he realized he was witnessing Grindelwald's teaching coming to fruition in Draco. Had he been in Ron's place, would he be able to overpower the protege of the late Augustus Grindelwald? He knew not what the answer was, for he was under the suspicion that Draco was not even utilizing his full capability.

"Is going on the defensive the best you can do? How disappointing," Draco continued to taunt Ron as curses and hexes flew across the air like iridescent fireworks. It was blatantly obvious to everyone that despite his best effort, Ron was barely able to keep up with Draco's ferocious assault. "Aren't you supposed to be good at chess? Don't you even know that sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece in order to achieve a checkmate?"

Everything flashed by so rapidly in the next moment that no one could tell what had happened until they saw Ron lying on the ground, his wand dropped beside him. At first it appeared as if Draco was the victor of the duel; nonetheless, Draco was holding his wand hand as though wounded. Unsure of what had transpired only seconds ago, none of the students dared to breathe loudly lest they disturbed the stifling, tense silence.

Remaining as singularly unimpressed as he had been during the duel, Snape announced quietly, "That's enough." And most of the students suddenly found themselves able to breathe again. Nevertheless, had they been watching Snape closely, they would have seen the slightest hint of a disapproving frown lurking about his brows.

Unable to withstand her distress anymore, Hermione rushed over to Ron's side, just in time to see Ron sitting up with a wince. "Are you alright, Ron?" Hermione asked while looking critically at Ron. She was relieved to see that Ron did not appear to be harmed.

Rubbing the back of his neck with a baffled look on his face, Ron replied, "I'm fine, I think. Everything is still where they should be." And then he met Draco's pensive gaze, but instead of the usual heated hatred, Ron looked oddly thoughtful as though he was trying to fathom out a perplexing chess move played by his supposed opponent.

When Harry went over to meet his friends, he cast a furtive glance at Draco, who walked past him without a word, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of a crimson streak on Draco's hand. A sudden urge to grab Draco's arm and stop his retreat welled up in Harry like an abrupt tide, but he restrained himself.

"If you are finished with this tearful reunion, then we shall continue," Snape said in a tone bespoke of barely disguised disdain. "Next, Theodore Nott and Harry Potter." And Harry, being brought out of his musing, took a few seconds to compose himself, before taking out his wand.

"Good luck," Hermione offered him an encouraging smile, while Ron, who was grinning at Harry for the first time ever since their quarrel, said, "Go for it."

The strained tension between the two boys had evaporated as if the morning fog was at last lifted. Feeling the convoluted knot in his stomach unwinding itself, Harry shared a grin with his best friend, and replied, "I will." As he stepped onto the platform, he felt a steady silver gaze trailing after him, but he willed himself to focus on the duel instead.

The duel went by swiftly but fiercely; Nott had proven to be quite skilled in wand works. And when Harry managed to disarm Nott, Snape called for an end. Despite his cool indifference towards Nott, Harry handed the wand back to him politely, who took it without a word save for a look of moroseness. For once Snape did not offer any scathing comment, but Harry doubted it was because he was impressed with Harry's performance.

As Harry went back to rejoin his friends, he saw Draco unobtrusively slipping out of the classroom. His first impulse was to go after him; nonetheless, his friends were waiting. Reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the door, he stood beside Ron and stared doggedly at the stage.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a meaningful glance, before Ron sighed in defeat. Nudging Harry with his elbow none too gently, Ron uttered with a note of grudging resignation, "Get going already. Snape probably doesn't give a damn anyway."

Warmed by his friend's consideration, Harry nevertheless stood his ground, though his hand was fiddling with the pendant out of its own accord. "No, it's fine. There's no reason to-"

"Right, but I'm not sure you believe that, Harry," Hermione interrupted him while tilting her head to regard Harry. "Go before Ron gets even more embarrassed and changes his mind."

"Oi, why the hell should I be embarrassed?" Ron exclaimed indignantly, which earned the trio a displeased hiss from Snape. Immediately lowering his voice lest the Head of Slytherin House decided to take off house points, Ron continued, "Go on."

After looking from Hermione to Ron, Harry finally made up his mind. Nodding once to them in unspoken gratitude, he grabbed his school bag, then stealthily departed from the chamber.

* * *

The school corridor was completely devoid of life; the only sound to be heard was the hasty sound of Harry's footsteps bouncing off featureless stone walls. It was as if he was strolling down a dimly lit aisle in a lofty, empty cathedral, towards a glorious stained-glass window depicting an ancient legend.

Steadfastly shaking the illusion away from his eyes, he allowed his instinct to guide his course. It was not long before he at last caught sight of a familiar black silhouette striding purposefully onwards amidst the leaden grey of antiquated masonry.

As Harry hurried over to overtake his quarry, he called out, "Wait, Malfoy!" Nonetheless, neither would Draco pause nor would he turn to look. Frustration from past and present mounted upon Harry like layers of bricks cementing the fate of the doomed within the tomb composed of a niche in the cellar and a solid stone wall.

Biting his lip in agitation, Harry sprinted for Draco, and grabbed onto Draco's arm, forcing him to turn around. Head tilted curiously to the side in wait, Draco contemplated him with those haughty, frozen eyes he had inherited from his sires. Refusing to relent, Harry returned the gaze with obstinate defiance.

"Since you ran away last time before I could say anything, I'm going to say it now. I don't know what the hell you are trying to do, and to be honest, I doubt you'll tell me anyway." Vivid green pupils stared uncompromisingly into twin pools of liquid silver. "And I admit I'm being nosy. I don't know why I care or why I even bother. But I can't just watch you keep throwing yourself in harm's way and do nothing."

The slightest flicker of emotion peeked through from Draco's demeanour, but so brief was the moment that Harry could not tell if it was the trick of the light and nothing more. At length Draco opened his mouth, and spoke as if uttering a solemn declaration, "So be it then."

Knowing it was the most he could expect from Draco, Harry threw a glance at Draco's hand, and changed the subject. "How's your hand?"

A spark of what could have been mistaken for bemusement flashed by fleetingly in Draco's eyes. And then dutifully Draco held out his hand for Harry's inspection. There was neither traces of blood nor any scar on his skin; it was evident that Draco had already taken care of the wound.

"Aren't you overdoing it by making Ron duel with you?" Harry questioned, though his voice was devoid of any accusatory note.

"You can think of it as a catharsis. Now that he had actually fought with me as he has been boosting to do for so long, he should cease bothering me for the time being."

Eyes of midnight forest narrowed conspicuously; the words that escaped from Harry's mouth was tainted with sullenness. "So that you'll have more free time to do whatever it is you are doing?"

Draco cocked his head to the side reflectively, and responded in his infuriatingly tranquil tone, "In a manner of speaking, yes. Time isn't something I can afford these days."

A befuddled frown burrowed its way onto Harry's forehead like a stigma; there was something in Draco's voice that troubled him. "You sound as if you are running out of time."

Silence was the only reply Harry received from Draco, who took something out of his school bag, and with a neat spin spelling of frequent practice, offered the handle to Harry. Unconsciously Harry froze, for the object that Draco was extending to him was a dagger concealed in a nondescript leather sheath. When he looked to Draco in confusion, he could detect nothing save for a voiceless signal to take the dagger.

Discontented, Harry tried to decipher the meaning behind the gesture, but like a closed book Draco refused to give him even a single shred of a hint. "What's this for?"

"Just take it." Those impassive grey eyes of Draco's did not once flicker away from Harry's face; it was as though Draco was extracting a silent promise from him. "You might need it someday."

Like a man whose most private secret was brought into the light, Harry's expression darkened at the implication behind Draco's words. Nonetheless, Harry accepted the dagger, and driven by both instinct and curiosity, he pulled out the blade.

The moment the dagger was unsheathed, a blast of iciness pierced Harry's face and made him wince; it was as if the blade had managed to nick his cheek without so much as a physical contact with his skin. Thin to the point of transparent was the blade, with a sinister silver gleam of a most exceptional keenness. It sent a chill into Harry's marrow, for the dagger gave off the impression that it could easily slice through flesh and bones with the least amount of effort exerted. For a delusional moment, he was nearly led to believe that this was the very same blade Draco had wielded in his nightmare.

As he stared at his reflection upon the blade, a small voice in the forgotten corner of his mind began to whisper its seductive melody to him. An inexplicable flame of restlessness was ignited inside of Harry, and rippled steadily outwards like forest fire. A most unthinkable compulsion was formulated in his mind, and it took hold of his entire being; it was a sensation not altogether unpleasant to his delirious psyche.

Inevitably his eyes were drawn to the youth who had turned to face the window overlooking the hazy midday sun, seemingly unaware of the menacing aura surrounding him like barbed wires. With the quickness of a silent predator preparing for the kill, Harry withdrew to stand behind the boy, and gripped the hilt tightly in his hand.

When Draco turned around, Harry dropped his hand, and sheathed the dagger with a casual, eerie calmness as though nothing was amiss. It was not until he met Draco's unfathomable mercurial gaze that he was brought out of the trance like a marionette whose strings were severed, leaving him with a film of cold sweat on his back and a sinking realization of what he had nearly done. Willing his hands not to tremble, Harry shot his hand out and offered the dagger back to Draco, his eyes looking at anywhere except Draco's face.

"I don't need it," Harry proclaimed aloud, his voice breaking slightly from the turmoil raging inside of him. "I'm not going to accept this."

A cold hand tentatively reached out and pressed its palm against Harry's cheek, forcing Harry to meet Draco's penetrating eyes. Remarkably gentle though was Draco's gesture, his voice was unyieldingly harsh. "You won't? Or you can't?"

The lingering dread in Harry was swiftly fading away, but it was replaced by a surge of irrational anger. "What do you want from me? Do you expect me to kill someone with this? Do you expect me to kill y-" Abruptly his voice went dead, for what remained of his reason was holding him back.

Clearly taken aback by Harry's outburst, Draco withdrew his hand. After several beats of reflection, he abruptly loosened the scarlet and gold tie wound around Harry's neck. Dumbstruck by Draco's bold action, Harry was about to voice his protest when Draco hushed him, "Just hold still for awhile." And Harry, despite feeling rebellious about the proceeding, kept his silence.

Cool fingers undid the collar button on his shirt, and then from beneath the fabric pulled out the silver chain, the end of which dangled the jade pendant. Pensive leaden eyes contemplated the bird-shaped amulet for a heartbeat, before Draco bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. And then, as Harry watched with perplexed fascination, Draco brought his blood-tinted lips to the pendant as if swearing his allegiance. Sensing a sudden heat spreading across his chest, Harry felt his own heart skip several beats too fast.

When Draco let go of the amulet, he held Harry's flustered gaze evenly, and said, "The password to the Slytherin dormitory is _Memento Mori_. Other than that, you should already know how to find me." With that, he steadied Harry's hand, and pushed the dagger back to Harry. "Even if you don't want it, keep it anyway."

For a few heartbeats Harry stared at the dagger in his hand, before closing his fingers tightly around it. Draco obviously had surmised that Harry was hiding something from him; and yet, he did not voice it aloud. Such offhanded consideration was one that Harry would not have imagined possible for Draco Malfoy, and it filled him with unbridled guilt.

Sensing Draco's gaze upon him, Harry recollected his wandering thoughts, and remarked distantly, "I don't understand you at all. What are you really?"

A faint half-smile fluttered onto Draco's lips; it was the same strange bitter smile Harry had beheld in Draco from time to time. "Maybe I am Mephistopheles; maybe I am Faust."

"Then would that make me Faust, or would that make me Margaret?" Harry uttered witheringly in warped humour, to which Draco reacted with an arched eyebrow suggestive of distant amusement. Harry could not help returning a wry smile of his own.

The brief moment of respite was shattered by the sound of a closing door somewhere beyond their view. Knowing what he ought to do, Harry put away the dagger and spoke in genuine gratitude, "Well, thanks anyway, even if I'm not going to use it. I'd better get going now. So I'll see you around."

When he received a small nod from Draco, he let out a pale smile, then strolled past Draco and went on his way. The still figure of the jade eagle bounced lightly against his chest, keeping time to his every footfall like a faithful metronome.

Once more alone in the monochromatic corridor, Draco wiped away the remnant of carmine from his lips with the back of his hand and licked it away. Leaning against the window-sill as if weary, he fixated his gaze upon his hand for a long time, recalling the sensation of warmth that lingered on his palm like a phantom touch. Still as a tombstone he remained, not even the dissonant chorus of ravens could shake him out of his rumination.

The wheels that were the _dramatis personae _were turning in rapid motion, and they could neither halt nor escape, not until they span out of control and broke apart. And the most crucial wheel of all upon this metaphorical steam engine, represented by the current patriarch of the Malfoy family, would be arriving soon. This lamentable tragicomedy was truly pitiful and ironic to the point of satirical -- Draco could not resist chuckling dryly.

A series of loud footsteps from beyond the corridor brought him out of his sardonic brooding. When a human shadow was cast upon the floor around the corner, Draco spoke out nonchalantly, "What is your business with me?"

Resolutely stepping out of the wall was Ron Weasley, who surveyed him with unfriendly eyes. After ticking his tongue in annoyance, Ron questioned bluntly, "Did you go easy on me back there?"

Haughtily Draco raised an eyebrow as if he was affronted by such an accusation, but the timbre in his colourless voice did not alter. "And why would I want to do that?"

Long and hard Ron squinted at Draco, urging him to surrender his secrets; and yet it was like staring at an obstinate brick wall. Several tense beats passed, and he finally said, "Yeah, why would you? I'm probably just imagining things."

As he turned to leave, however, Draco's quiet voice chased behind his back. "Weasley, I will make you a deal. If anyone ever cause him harm in any way, I will deal with them the same way I dealt with McLaggen, and that includes you."

Halting on his track, Ron flashed a resentful glance over his shoulder at Draco, before he quirked a faintly twisted grin; there was no need to ask whom Draco was referring to. "Fine, I'll do the same. If I find out you did something to Harry, I'll kill you."

Draco responded with a distorted smirk of his own; a wary consensus between the two arch-rivals was established. "Of course you would. And I shall hold you to your words someday."

* * *

Meanwhile, Harry followed the familiar trail that would lead him to the headmaster office, his pace hastening into a light jog. By the time he arrived at the entrance where the gargoyle stood guard over the office, he was slightly out of breath. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he was about to utter the password when the gargoyle sprang aside with a bow like a disciplined doorman that it was; it appeared Dumbledore was informed of his visit. Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Harry gathered his resolve, and climbed the revolving staircase.

When he arrived at the door atop the spiral staircase, he knocked thrice until a voice from within called out to him, "Come in," to which Harry politely obliged.

The headmaster's office changed but little since his previous visit, though he caught glimpses of several former headmaster portraits glancing suspiciously at him before returning to their pretence of sleep. Standing by the cherry-wood bookshelf cluttered with ancient tomes was the current headmaster himself, who appeared to be engrossed in his reading only moments ago.

Two briefest of seconds was all it took for Harry to recognize the book Dumbledore was holding in his bony hand; it was a black leather-bound volume that was on the verge of falling apart. The sight of the book resonated with a hidden fragment of his core he knew not existed, drawing his attention away as a colourful, poisonous butterfly would to a predatory insect. A most uncanny sense of nostalgia was aroused in him, like a twisted reminder from a previous lifetime he could barely recall.

A soft thud signalling a book being returned to the wooden bookshelf unceremoniously snapped him out of his reverie. Forcing his gaze away from where the book had taken its place amongst its siblings, Harry turned to Dumbledore and said, "Sorry for barging in like this, sir. There's actually something I wanted to talk to you about. Maybe I should've come to you sooner, but-"

"But still, here you are, Harry." Dumbledore smiled genially at him, though a grim shadow was hanging over his brows. At length he strolled over to the mahogany desk that signified his status as the headmaster of Hogwarts, and gestured for Harry to sit. "Now, what would you like to talk to me about?"

Willing himself not to run away anymore, Harry looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes, and began, "I've been having hallucinations lately. It started late last year, around the time when Malfoy was released from St Mungo's after..." He trailed off, and with a look of understanding Dumbledore nodded once. "Each time the vision is more or less the same. I saw Malfoy trying to kill me. No, perhaps _saw _isn't the right word, but rather, I felt like Malfoy did kill me."

Placid as the wintry moon Dumbledore seemed, neither sympathetic nor judgemental; the misgiving that had been weighing heavily in Harry began to lessen. Feeling more assertive of himself, Harry continued in a brisk voice, "I'm not sure whether this is related or not, but several days after what happened in the South Wing, I somehow entered Voldemort's mind again. And after that, something has changed."

Nevertheless, a part of him wondered if it was indeed Voldemort who caused the change. Had not his impulse begun to manifest itself even before then? Had he not been contemplating Draco's neck like a wolf staring at the neck of a sheep, pondering how best to rip it open? The facade of composure Harry had been trying to maintain began to falter. All too clearly still he could recall the disturbingly comforting weight of the silver dagger in his hand, as was the small voice lurking within the open coffin of his feverish mind, tempting him with the unspeakable. No longer able to meet those knowing azure eyes of Dumbledore's fully, he diverted his gaze elsewhere.

"I want to kill Draco, and I don't know why. I don't understand why he's the only one to appear in my visions either. It's as if I was paranoid about being killed by him before, and now I'm obsessed with the idea of killing him first before he can kill me."

When Harry finished his narration, Dumbledore placed a query to him, "Are you more afraid of the hallucination itself, or the possibility that one day you can no longer tell what is real and what is not?"

However unassuming Dumbledore's voice was, Harry could feel his skin crawl, as though Dumbledore's words became imaginary insects that were squirming freely beneath his skin. Clutching the pendant in his hand, Harry forced himself to answer, "I'm afraid of myself. I don't want to kill him, but if this goes on any further, I'm afraid I'll be tempted to do it for real."

Standing witness to his student's anguish, Dumbledore could only watch from a distance with a pained look bespoke of empathy towards this tormented pupil of his. At length, he turned away from Harry out of respect for his privacy, and said slowly, "You have mentioned the hallucination started around early December. Since Voldemort did not know of your connection with Draco at the time, nor any reason to suspect it, we can rule out his involvement. While various explanations exist to account for hallucinations about one's murder, one in particular readily comes to my mind.

"A preoccupation with death -- it is said that this is a common trait amongst those who have glimpsed upon what lies beyond the Veil. One such manifestation is hallucination about one's own death; another possible symptom is a growing desire to invoke death upon oneself or others."

The mentioning of the Veil abruptly pulled Harry out of the chaotic tempest swirling in his mind. Like a key being fit perfectly into the lock, it dislodged a certain piece of memory in him. "Malfoy said something like that too, but I didn't understand what he meant."

There was a flicker beneath those half-moon glasses of Dumbledore's, and for a moment, his eyes were concealed beneath the white glare of the lenses. "So it appears my theory is correct. Individuals who have come too close to the land of the dead are inevitably drawn to that world, their minds and perceptions altered by the experience.

"It is like a virus. The longer you are exposed to it, the more likely it is you will get infected. Of course, whether you will be infected eventually and how it will affect you differ for different individuals. That is part of the reason why necromancy is considered a dangerous art, and why practitioners of necromancy would almost unfailingly become unsound in mind and spirit; for they are exposed to the effect of the dead for prolonged periods of time, hence more likely to be infected."

"But I don't see-" was all Harry could say before Dumbledore held out a hand in silent interjection.

"I have been poring over the incident on Hallowe'en in my head for some time, the foremost concern of which was whether the incident would leave a lasting effect on Draco, and on you." Beholding Harry's astonished visage, Dumbledore nodded as if in response to his query. "We know that it is supposedly impossible for Draco to survive the possession, but he did. And we also know that for one reason or another, Augustus had taken a great interest in you."

The reminder of the man who was solely responsible for this cryptic game of hide and seek left Harry with a sense of apprehension. Had Augustus Grindelwald thrown him into the never-ending spiral of murderous illusions out of some ulterior motive no one knew of save the culprit himself?

However, the next remark escaping from the old headmaster's mouth had provided him with a small amount of solace. "If my conjecture is accurate, Augustus used you as an anchor to pull Draco away from the crossing of the dead. Whether it was a spell or simply a sublime suggestion he had placed in you I cannot say. But for you to be able to bring Draco back from the crossing, it means you have come very close to the boundary itself."

"And by extension, the land of the dead." It was not a question, but an affirmation. Fighting the urge to rake his unruly hair, Harry spoke again. "So, Grindelwald used me to save Malfoy, so that Malfoy wouldn't be pulled to the other side when the three spirits left his body. Well, I admit I dreamt of the Veil, but I couldn't remember what I saw behind it."

"_Looking behind the Veil_ is perhaps nothing more than a figurative expression. Whatever you might have seen is not as important as the simple fact that you have reached out to the other world, knowingly or otherwise. The living is not supposed to meddle with the dead, and by breaking the rule, one has subjected oneself to the influence of the dead."

The image of a fair-haired man with an ageless visage and an eerily gentle smile flitted itself before Harry's eyes like a mirage, but before he could grasp for it, it dissolved into ashes and dust. Blinking away the beguiling vision, he was about to ask Dumbledore about Grindelwald when a series of smart raps disrupted the flow of his rumination.

As soon as Dumbledore answered the door with a simple "_come in_", McGonagall burst into the office in agitated strides. Briefly she cast a curious glance at Harry, before she directed her attention on Dumbledore.

"The Aurors are here to see you," McGonagall said curtly, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

"I shall be there soon, Minerva. Please delay them for the moment." Dumbledore calmly issued his command, to which McGonagall accepted with a nod, and then as abruptly as she arrived, she hastened to the doorway and disappeared into the shadow, the door slid shut at her wake.

Turning to Harry in apology, Dumbledore said immediately, "I'm afraid our discussion will have to wait for now. But before that, I would like to give you an advice." At that, his cerulean eyes rested upon the pendant Harry had been toying with. Caught in the act, Harry hastily withdrew his hand, which brought a smile to Dumbledore's lined face.

"My advice is that you should wear the amulet at all time. I have an inkling as to what kind of spells Draco had woven into it." Harry was unable to disguise his surprise or his amazement. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was smiling still, albeit ruefully. "May it protect you from the most unlikely foe."

After leaving behind those parting words, Dumbledore swiftly departed from the office. And Harry, being left to his own device, got up from the chair, and was about to make his exit when he found his eyes lingering over the spot where the mysterious black book stood. With racing heartbeat he walked over to the bookshelf as if he was pulled by a heart-rending yearning. After a moment of tantalizing stillness, he reached out for the nondescript book, whose cover was devoid of a title or the name of the author.

Like a man possessed, he lightly caressed the leather cover as if he had reunited with an old friend. And then, without ceremony he flipped the book open, his dark green eyes skimming through line after line of elegantly written text, page after page of heretic knowledge on the dead. Without a doubt, this was the very book that was in Lucius Malfoy's possession at one time, the book that had attracted the likes of Voldemort, written by none other than the reputed wizard Augustus Grindelwald.

A thoroughly unwise move though it may be to open his mind to the forbidden knowledge of the dead, and an unsavoury move still to act without the headmaster's consent, Harry realized this book might contain the answers he sought after, answers which could lead him to the land of truth. Carefully and silently closing the book shut, he threw a cautious, furtive glance around the chamber. When he was satisfied that the seemingly dozing portraits could not see him, he stealthily put the book into his school bag, and then strolled out of the office and made his descent into the ever revolving spiral.

* * *

Like silver thorns snow fell over Hogwarts and its neighbouring landscape, as if eager to smother everything beneath its weight and bury what ought to be buried from time immemorial, blinding the eyes of the living and shutting the eyes of the dead.

In the deserted Gryffindor common-room late at night, Harry sat before the crackling fireplace, diligently leafing through the black book he had taken from Dumbledore's collection. The window trembled when a gust of particularly brutal wind rattled against the glass, but Harry heard none of it, for he was thoroughly immersed in the flowing words printed across the pages.

Fascinating though the knowledge Grindelwald had poured into the book was, Harry could not silence the warning siren at the back of his mind. He was beginning to understand why necromancy was considered a taboo, for it kindled a glimmer of hope in those who despaired over losing a loved one. Recalling how Draco had found the recipe for the Evocation ritual in the book, Harry found his own pulse quicken. Despite the consequences that ensured should he attempt a summoning, if he were ever given a chance to bring back his parents or his godfather from the dead, Harry knew it in his bones that he would want to pursue it at whatever cost necessary.

Unconsciously he tightened his grip on the book, fighting to keep his mind away from dangerous water. It was only for the purpose of learning more about his hallucinations that he borrowed the book; he would not allow himself to succumb to the same temptation as Draco once had. Unceremoniously slamming the book shut and throwing it onto the sofa, Harry furiously ran his hand over his unkempt hair, before heaving a heavy sigh. The book did little to pacify his mind; instead, it was doing its best to unhinge the precarious balance between his sanity and its opposite.

_Ah, I'm really going insane, _Harry thought sardonically to himself as he stared into the golden flame. _Was that how Grindelwald was driven out of his mind as well? _Knowing full well that he would truly be driven mad if he were to continue his reading any further for the night, he stood up and restlessly paced to the window, beyond which was the white blizzard that had dominated the mountainside.

Suddenly he remembered something Dumbledore had once told him. Had the headmaster not remarked how love had utterly destroyed Grindelwald? Distantly Harry wondered if Grindelwald's interest in the study of the dead might not have been merely a scholarly pursuit, but something much more personal. Frowning at his own reflection in the glass, he shook his head dismissively. He ought to be more concerned about his current plight than the past life of the departed.

Inevitably he turned his musing towards Draco, who was suffering through a much worst predicament than he was. As if his heart was pricked by brier thorns, a pang was spreading in his chest, minutely deadening into a tantalizing ache. The dagger Draco had given him was currently resting in the secure cabinet that was his trunk. Harry did not want to speculate Draco's motive for giving him the dagger, even less did he wish to consider the possibility that Draco knew precisely what abominable thought was running through his poison-filled mind.

Eager to chase away his disturbing ponderance, Harry held out the pale green pendant. Like a key to his sanity, the amulet had woken him out of his nightmarish visions time and time again. And now that he thought about it, ever since he wore the amulet, he had not once sensed Voldemort's presence in his mind. It was only during the time when he took it off that Voldemort's thoughts bled into his.

_Dammit, I'm in Draco's debt much more than I thought, _Harry chid inwardly, gritting his teeth in indignation. _Why couldn't he just say everything outright?_

Then again, perhaps Harry himself was partially at fault too, for he had not made it easy for Draco to gain his trust. He smiled bitterly at himself; he was equally as prejudiced as those he denounced. Letting out a long breath, he bowed his head to regard the jade bird that was resting quietly in his palm. The remembrance of Draco's lips pressing against its heart made Harry's own heart flutter. If he were to close his eyes, he could almost recall the sensation of Draco's lips against his from once upon a Hallowe'en afternoon. Even if it was not truly Draco back then, it was his lips that had grazed against Harry's. Harry felt his own cheeks inflame and his stomach twist, but he could tell his reaction stemmed from an emotion much deeper and much more intense than sheer embarrassment.

Out of its own accord, his hand brought the pendant to his lips. Amidst the inorganic coldness of the polished stone, he thought he could feel a sliver of warmth against his lips where Draco's lifeblood was sealed within. And for a long time, he remained by the window with his eyes shut, savouring the scentless heat and the soundless pulse beneath his lips.

When another strong gust slammed against the window like a wrathful ghoul, Harry recollected himself with a start, and let go of the amulet. What was he thinking? What was happening to him? Thoroughly confused he tore at his hair, his face twisted into an expression liken to a man who had just woken from his opiate journey, only to find himself losing decades of his life.

"The storm has gotten worse, hasn't it?" A pensive voice suddenly rang out from behind him, making him jump in alarm.

Wheeling around, Harry saw the incorporeal form of Nearly Headless Nick floating not far away from him. Heaving a sigh of relief, he greeted the Gryffindor ghost, "It's you, Nick. I thought it was..." But he could not finish his statement, for even he himself did not know whom he was expecting to see.

"Sorry for startling you." With a lavish gesture, Nick bowed to Harry in apology, before smiling good-naturedly at him. "You are up late, Harry. Unable to sleep?"

"Something like that," Harry replied vaguely while returning a weak smile; he could not very well tell Nick that he had stayed up late to study necromancy in secret.

As though he could detect the unrest residing in Harry, Nick inspected Harry's face closely. "It seems you have a lot on your mind, my boy. Of course, so many things have happened at Hogwarts lately that it's not surprising you feel troubled."

"Yeah." There was a pause as Harry fumbled in the dark for something to say. And then, a flash of inspiration was ignited in him like a torch in an underground crypt. "There's something I wanted to ask you, Nick. When you passed away, did you see the Veil?"

The corner of the ghost's mouth curled upwards into a crooked smile, though Nick did not appear offended by the inquiry. "Ah, you begin with a difficult question. In any case, I can't say that I did. I became a ghost -- a being neither entirely alive nor entirely dead -- because I was too afraid to die; perhaps that fear was the reason why the Veil was not revealed to me."

Having wished a ghost could afford him some answers, Harry found himself sorely disappointed. Nick had clearly noticed the dejection on Harry's face, for he spoke again. "You are not the first person to ask me this question, and I am sorry to say that I cannot offer you any more than I did for that young lad many years ago."

Suspicion dominated Harry's mind like an incurable disease, for he had an inkling as to the identity of the boy who had once asked the same question as he did. "Was that... Augustus Grindelwald?"

"Quite so. Now, I have encountered my fair share of witches and wizards who were interested in the mystery of the dead, but he was the one with the most peculiar perspective. Or should I say he possessed a wildly vivid imagination? That combined with a brilliant mind and unyielding will -- he definitely had what it takes to be a great researcher." Nick mused in fond reminiscence, before letting out a misty sigh. "He was like Dumbledore in that regard. Perhaps it was no wonder that they became friends when they attended school here, all the more ironic that their famous duel took place right here at Hogwarts, the very place they first met."

"You mean he died here at Hogwarts?" Harry immediately asked, unable to believe what he had just heard.

"Ah, of course you wouldn't know, since the details of the duel were never made public. I don't know much about it either, but it seems Dumbledore challenged Grindelwald to a duel, and they decided that the duel should be held in the tower of the Morrigan Hall."

"Morrigan Hall?" Harry's geographical knowledge of Hogwarts was once more challenged. Nevertheless, vague connections between various pieces of information he had gathered were beginning to take a tangible form. "Do you mean the South Wing by any chance?"

"Right again," Nick praised him, and then he spoke in a hushed voice, as though he did not wish to be overheard. "Originally it was part of Hogwarts, but many terrible things had happened in there that it was locked away and forgotten. Even we the ghosts do not like to trespass upon the Hall, especially the tower."

Out of nowhere, a cold breeze blew into the common-room, provoking the flame in the hearth into a wild dance -- the wandering dead had spoken. Recalling the dismembered whispers he had heard in the tower of the Morrigan Hall, Harry involuntarily shivered.

Beckoning Harry to him, Nick lowered his voice even further; Harry had to strain his ears in order to hear what he was saying. "Places with as ancient a history as Hogwarts are bound to be haunted by the past -- dark, violent, brutal past. Hogwarts is no exception, even if it is a school. One could say that the Morrigan Hall is the vault for storing away Hogwarts' most unsavoury legacy."

"But what was the Hall really for?" Harry asked relentlessly. So close to the window of truth he was that he would not back down now.

"A sanctuary, a prison, and later on, a duelling ground." Nick could not hide away the grimace that had wormed its way onto his face. "The headmaster is the one who holds all the keys to the Hall, so in essence, the Hall can be anything the headmaster wishes it to be. During the time of war, the Hall can be turned into a refuge to keep the enemies out-"

"And sometimes a cage to keep the enemies in," Harry finished Nick's sentence for him. The windowless tower in the Hall certainly looked much like an impregnable prison.

Nick nodded once in grim assent, causing his head to wobble dangerously above his barely attached neck. "Now, before duelling was banned at Hogwarts, the Hall once served as the training ground for young witches and wizards to learn how to duel. Inevitably some of the more hotheaded individuals used the tower as their private duelling ground to settle disputes, or worse.

"Back then, there were no set rules in duels, therefore you can surmise at how brutal the duels can get at times. Dark curses were the norm; regulations regarding the usage of the Unforgivables had not even been established yet. It wasn't until several people had died as a consequence that the headmaster at the time decided to seal up the Hall for good.

"Even now, the tower isn't the most cheerful place you would want to be in at Hogwarts. The final moments of those who died in the tower were impressed into the walls. Rumours had it that if you stay in there long enough, you might even be driven insane."

Slowly digesting the information, Harry absently traced the contour of the amulet with his finger, and asked in an oddly blank tone that surprised even himself, "Is there any hidden passage in the Hall?"

Like a thief who was caught telling a lie, Nick stiffened, and mumbled while averting his gaze, "I am not at liberty to say. I've already spoken more than I should." Nonetheless, Harry had gotten his answer.

If Grindelwald had known about the Hall, then it was very likely that Draco had heard of the Hall through him. In turn, Draco made used of that knowledge to accomplish whatever it was he had done. And yet, if Dumbledore was supposed to be the one who held all the keys to the Hall, how did Draco manage to open the seal to the Hall in the first place? Did Grindelwald tell him how to do it, or did Draco steal the keys from Dumbledore when he supposedly attacked him? Whichever the case may be, it only served to reinforce the impression that Grindelwald had left much more than a fragmented imprint of himself in Draco.

Completely forgotten about the ghost, Harry clutched his aching forehead, pondering wildly at the possibility of Draco being slowly taken over by the capricious wizard with golden hazel eyes in body and soul, and of him, Harry, being progressively drawn to this enigma of a boy.

* * *

_To be continued..._

A/N: Happy Beltane again, I suppose? After two years, I feel like I'm being haunted by this fic. Anyway, thank you very much for reading.


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